APRIL 1940 THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE VOL. 70 No.
MURDER IN E FLAT MAJOR , A BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL
BLUE BOOK
APRIL * 192 PAGES OF FICTION AND ADVENTURE • 25 CENTS
A Tarzan novelette*A new series by H. Bedford JONES
FULTON GRANT • BORDEN CHASE • WILLIAM MAKIN
The little gunner wedged the battle-standard in a gash in the deck. “Take a
good look at that, yer blinkin’ ’Uns!” he called. He shook a list toward the sea.
“An’ now let’s see ’ow yer can fight!” (Drawn hy Frederic Anderson to illustrate
"Carry On," the story of a 1940 Q-boat, by Borden Chase. . . . See Page 4.)
I
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1
BLUE BOOK
APRIL 1940 MAGAZINE VOL. 70, NO. 6
A Complete Book-Length Novel
Murder in E-Flat Major
Illustrated by Percy Leasoti
By Fulton Grant
123
Seven Short Stories
Carry On!
Illustrated by Frederic Anderson
By Borden Chase
4
Warlock Finn
Illustrated by Grattan Condon
By H. Bedford-Jones
32
Orient Express
Illustrated by Charles Chickering
By William Makin
46
War Lord of Smoky Butte
Illustrated by Walter Wilwerding
By Bigelow Neal
82
The World Was Their Stage
Illustrated by Clinton Shepherd and John R, Flanagan
By H. Bedford-Jones
90
Monkey Money
Illustrated by L, R. Gustavson
By Kenneth Perkins
104
Junior G-Man
Illustrated by Charles Chickering
By Robert Mill
114
A Novelette
Tarzan and the Champion By Edgar Rice Burroughs
Illustrated by L. R. Gustavson
16
A Serial Novel
Lady of the Legion
Illustrated by Jeremy Cannon
By Georges Surdez
60
Real Experiences
Night Horse By Will James
A famous writer tells of his cowboy days—and illustrates his own story.
182
When the Courageous Sank By John E. Burns
An American sailor shares the aftermath of a great tragedy.
188
Mirriri
By Donald Thomson
190
Weird scenes in Australia, described by a distinguished anthropologist.
Cover Design
Painted by Herbert Morton Stoops
Except for stories of Real Experience, all stories and novels printed herein are fiction
and are intended as such. They do not refer to real characters or to actual events.
If the name of any living person is used, it is a coincidence.
McCALL CORPORATION Publisher, The Blue Book Magazine
William B. Warner, Provident
Marvin Pierce, Vice-Provident Francis Hutter, Secretary
Malcolm MacHarg, Vice-President J. D. Hartman, Treasurer
DONALD KENNICOTT, Editor
s
U ndoubtedly there was a
war going on along the West¬
ern Front; but so far, the Eng¬
lish and French had managed
to keep it a secret. True, it was their
show. I had no desire to tell them how
to run it. But it did seem a waste of tal¬
ent to keep two dozen American newspa¬
per-men bottled up in London when they
might have been scampering arotind be¬
hind the lines, grabbing stories and turn¬
ing them into hot reading for the Amer¬
ican public.
The cables that came through from
the home offices didn’t help. The editors
wanted news—real news. They didn’t
want official communiques from the War
Office. But there wasn’t any news in
London. There wasn’t anything to see
in London. And at Blackout time, there
wasn’t anything to do in London except
to gather around a table in the News Club
with a few other correspondents and play
poker.
My poker wasn’t the brand that could
stand a long siege. If I wanted to eat, I
had to pass up the games. That was why
I was standing in a Limehouse pub when
Sub-Lieutenant Bryan, R.N.R., arrived
to set up drinks for the house. He was
one of those pink-and-white little fellows
that grow nowhere but in England. He
belonged on the Strand, or in Piccadilly.
Not in Limehouse. Neither did I, for
that matter. But a quiet civilian could
stand at the bar without attracting much
notice from the crowd of merchant sea¬
men who gathered in the Gold Anchor.
Sub-Lieutenant Bryan drew stares. He
had closed the outer door of the light-
trap—one of those ingenious affairs built
like a vestibule to keep any light from
leaking into the dark street; and he was
standing framed in the inner doorway.
I saw the flash of his buttons first; then
I noticed his left arm was in a blue silk
sling. He tried to cover a limp when he
walked toward the bar, and his light gray-
eyes were very serious.
“Whut’ll it be, sir?” asked the bar¬
maid. She was blonde and round.
“I should like,” said Sub-Lieutenant
Bryan, “to set up a round of drinks for
the gentlemen.”
He tossed a pound note onto the bar,
and smiled at the girl. It was a nice
smile, a kid’s smile—one of those bashful
grins that are gone of an instant. But
Sub-Lieutenant Bryan was nervous. He
stroked the dozen or more blond hairs
that were camouflaging his upper lip, and
he tried to look at ease. It didn’t work.
He didn’t belong in thjs pub, and the rag¬
ged collection that lined the bar knew it.
“’Ow’s that?” inquired a bull-necked
sailor with blue tattoo-marks on his
knuckles. “’Ow’s that, I arsks? Ye’re
goin’ to buy a drink, whut?”
“I am,” said Sub-Lieutenant Bryan.
The sailor turned to his friend of the
moment. “You ’ear that, Nipper? The
adm’ral’s goin’ to buy a drink.”
“ ’Old yer jaw,” said Nipper, “Can’t
yer see ’is wing’s been clipped?”
It was a reprimand. The bull-necked
sailor looked at the arm in the blue silk
arry
0n!
A not-soon-f or gotten story of
desperate hazard aboard the
present-vbar version of a Brit¬
ish Q-boat . ... by the able
author of “Submarine Sunk!”
By Borden Chase
Illustrated by Frederic Anderson
sling. He nodded solemnly. Others who
had started to add their comments
crowded along the bar and stared at the
young naval officer. None came too close.
I looked at the nervous hand that stroked
the blond mustache. That was habit:
I’ve always been able to tell more abotit
a man by his hands than by his face. A
face can lie; a hand tells the truth. And
I’d seen this hand before. Right at this
same bar, not more than a month ago.
It was dirty the last time. And the man
who owned it hadn’t been wearing the
neat blue coat of a naval officer.
“On the young gentlemun, sir,” said
the barmaid.
S HE filled my glass, and I lifted it,
watching the pink-and-white officer as
he turned to face the crowd. His teeth
were worrying his lower lip, and he was
seemingly having difficulty with his voice:
It was high, almost like a girl’s.
“We’ll drink, gentlemen,” he said, “to
Willie Tinkham and Howard Knowles,
if you please—two British seamen who
have done their duty.”
“Lor’ lumme!” said the bull-necked
man. “He means Wullie an’ ’Owie of
Rotherhithe!”
“He must ’a’ been with ’em!” said
another.
“Bottoms up!” cried the bull-necked
man.
They drank to Willie Tinkham and
Howard Knowles, two British seamen
who had done their duty. I drank with
them. Then our young Sub-Lieutenant
Bryan solemnly broke his glass, and the
others did likewise.
“I’ll pay for the glasses, of course,”
he said to the barmaid.
“Not likely,” she answered. “Them’s
on the ’ouse, sir.”
It was all over, and the young officer
started toward the light-trap, walking
briskly and with a bit of a swagger in
spite of his limp, I followed, and fell in¬
to step with hint on the dark street.
“I was in that pub,” I said, “when you
made your last stop.”
“Really ?” he said. He didn’t slacken
his pace.
“Have you time for another drink at
the News Club?”
“You’re a writer ?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t talk for publication, you know.”
“Of course.”
We walked for a time in the darkness.
Things happen like that in London dur¬
ing a war. Things that couldn’t happen
in peace-time. I told him my name, and
learned his family were in Stockton. He
hoped to get north to see them, but as
yet he hadn’t been given permission.
This evening he had planned to take in
a cinema, but he didn’t feel quite up to it
now. Again I suggested a drink at the
News Club. He was doubtful. Casual¬
ly, I told him I had served on the Ameri¬
can destroyers during the last mess. That
did the trick. Sub-Lieutenant Bryan had
heard about the destroyers, and wanted
to hear more.
We headed toward the News Club.
5
“Strange that you should have recog¬
nized me,” he said over a whisky and
soda. “Hope you won’t spread it about.
I was supposed to be in disguise last
time. Went to no end of trouble. Patch
on my cheek and all that.”
“It was your hands,” I said. “That,
and the way you lifted your glass.”
“Stupid of me,” said Sub-Lieutenant
Bryan. “Must remember in future.”
I offered a pack of American cigarettes.
They were scarce in London. “Adding it
up,” I said, “I can guess the answer.
Most of it, at least. But I wish you’d
fill in the middle.”
“You won’t write it—word of honor?”
“Not until I have your permission, and
that of the Admiralty.”
He grinned that kid’s smile of his.
“Suppose you tell me what you know.
Then we’ll see.”
That was fair enough. I finished my
drink, ordered two more and tried to re¬
call the night I had been standing at the
bar of that sajne Limehouse pub.
T HE war was new, then. It was being
fought over mugs of porter and ale by
hard-faced men who worked along the
waterfront.
There were a dozen or so in the smoke-
filled room when the door opened and a
group of British seamen came to the bar.
They were a ragged crowd. Some were
in dirty blue pea-coats, others in sweaters
and dungarees; all of them had been
drinking, and their voices were loud.
“ ’Ere, now,” said one,—a lumbering
fellow with hands that could span a beer-
keg,—“let’s ’ave a drink as is a drink!
Somefin’ to keep the fog out of a honest
seaman’s throat. We sail at midnight,
so we do. Carryin’ good British beef to
the men in the lines. Let’s ’ave a drink
as is a drink!”
“’Ush up!” said another. “Do yer
want the ’ole German Naivy waitin’ on
us in the Channel ? Stow yer gab, man! ”
“The German Naivy!” said the lum¬
bering one. “Bring ’em on, says I—bring
’em on—all o’ them! The good ol’ India
Maid ’ll give ’em the slip, so she will! ”
It was dangerous talk. I was a neu¬
tral with little or no interest in the do¬
ings of the British merchant service. But
I wasn’t the only man in that pub.
Others were there, and their ears were
sharp. Within an hour one of these listen¬
ing dock-workers might slip cautiously
into an unlighted house, shed his Cockpey
dialect and pass the word that a freighter
was sailing at midnight. A hidden wire¬
less might send this message along to a
waiting submarine, and the India Maid
7
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
would join the other British freighters
at the bottom.
Still the seamen talked. They drank
and laughed and boasted no German sub
would ever catch them. An hour passed,
and the door opened to admit a pair of
merchant officers. One was tall, gaunt
and slow in his movements. He looked
about the dimly lit pub, grunted and
walked to the bar. Beside him came a
younger man, sloppy in his bearing, with
a small face that looked out from under
a dirty cap. He was wearing a leather
jacket over a roll-neck gray sweater. A
wide strip of adhesive tape was stretched
across one round cheek.
“Nah, then,” said the older man.
“Whut’s goin’ on, eh ?” He looked stern¬
ly at the seamen who were crowded along
the bar. “Time to stop all this. Time to
get aboard. ’Op to it, you blighters!
Finish yer drinks an’ get along with yer.”
He scowled, and ordered a glass of beer
for himself and one for his junior officer.
It was then I noticed the young man’s
hands. They were thin and nicely molded.
The dirt on his fingers couldn’t hide the
fact that these hands had done little
work. I watched the fingers curl about
the glass—watched the hand lift the
glass in a gesture toward the older man.
Then I looked quickly at the roistering
seamen.
Something—I couldn’t put a finger on
the answer, but something was wrong.
They were a hard lot, all of them. But
with all their cursing and shouting, I
caught an undercurrent of respect in their
voices when they spoke to the officers.
They didn’t crowd too closely. Didn’t
slap their heavy hands on the younger
man’s shoulder or offer to buy him an¬
other drink. And whenever the door
opened, these drunken seamen turned
from their drinking to look curiously at
each newcomer.
A GAIN the senior officer yelled that it
. was time to go. As he spoke, I saw
a stiffening in the attitude of the sea¬
men. They growled a few complaints and
emptied their glasses. Then the smoke-
filled air swirled with a breath of night
that came in through the open door.
With it came two men whose walk was
part of the sea. They were arm in arm,
each supporting the other, and it was evi¬
dent this was but one stop of many they
had made this evening.
“Beer,” said one. “Beer fer two un-
’appy men. Beer fer two gunners as aint
got no guns.”
“Aye,” said the other. “We is too old,
they says. ’Owie an’ me is too old.
Fancy that, naow! Too old, they says! ”
That brought a laugh. The patrons of
the pub gathered about the complaining
seamen. Beers were set up and quickly
downed. The taller of the two men
banged a hard fist against the bar, and
turned to address the room and the world
at large.
“Orfered our serwices, we did! Told
’em as ’ow we was the best gunners in
the Naivy. Turned us down fer bein’
old. A fine thing, that’s whut! A fine
thing! ’Ere we are, two gunners in the
wery prime o’ life, ’Owie an’ me. An’
they turned us down!” He looked sol¬
emnly at his companion. “Didn’ they
turn us down, ’Owie?”
“They turned us down,” said Howie.
“Didn’ we tell ’em we wuz gunners,
’Owie ?”
“We told ’em we wuz gunners,” said
Howie.
The big man rested his arms upon the
bar. He rested his face upon his arms.
He wept loudly for a time. Then he
looked about the room again.
"POUR blinkin’ years we served,” he
r said darkly. “Sunk an’sunk, an’sunk
again, wasn’t we, ’Owie?”
“We wuz sunk,” said Howie solemnly.
“An’ we kep’ right on fightin’ the blink¬
in’ ’Uns, didn’ we, ’Owie?”
“We kep’ on fightin’,” Howie echoed.
“An’ now they turn us down fer bein’
too old. A shime, that’s whut it is. A
blinkin’ shime!” He stared along the
bar—looked accusingly at each man.
“It’s all wery well to put young-uns on
the guns, but ’ow does we know they’re
fit to carry on ? ’Ow does we know ?”
The publican drew another glass of
beer. The war was young, and men were
still working at men’s jobs. Barmaids
hadn’t come to this Limehouse pub as
yet. The red-faced man in the white
apron pushed the foaming glass toward
the taller seaman.
“Drink it down, Wullie,” he said.
“This is on the ’ouse.”
Willie nodded. He lifted his glass and
looked about. Of a sudden, he was high¬
ly disinterested in the beer. His old blue
eyes had fastened upon the older mer¬
chant officer. They bored in through the
two days’ growth of stubble on the lean
jaw. He stood erect. Brought one heavy
hand toward his right ear.
“Cap’n Driscoll, sir! ” he said. “Cap’n
Driscoll—you remember Wullie Tink’am,
CARRY ON!
sir, as wuz yer gunner’s mate aboard the
Thunderer ? You do, sir—oh, yer must! ”
“Shut yer jaw! ” said one of the mer¬
chant crew. He moved forward and
hunched his shoulders. “Ye’re drunk—
that’s ’owl”
“Drunk an’ nahsty,” said another.
“Bash ’is face, Tommy!”
Fighting would have started with the
next word. But Willie had closed his
mouth. He looked wisely at the older of¬
ficer. Looked at the pink-faced boy. His
jaws worked, and he rubbed a broken
knuckle against his lips. Howie stood be¬
side him. He too was staring. A sudden
silence had filled the room. Even the
heavy cloud of smoke seemed slowed in
its movement by something that had
grown within the four walls of the pub.
“We’d like to come along, an’ it pleases
yer,” said Willie. He spoke quietly. “We
un’erstands, an’ we’d like t’come along.”
“We’d like to come along,” echoed
Howie.
Captain Driscoll set down his glass. He
put a wide hand across his mouth and
studied the men who faced him. “Wul-
lie Tink’am, eh?” he said slowly. “Can’t
say as I remember you, Wullie. Nor you,
either, ’Owie. Still, I could use two sea¬
men aboard the India Maid. Come along
—both of yer.”
He motioned to the others and headed
toward the door. Willie and Howie had
grown sober in a moment. They braced
their shoulders, stiffened their backs and
followed. Others of the crew crowded
about them. Soon the pub was emptied,
save for the dock-workers and merchant¬
men, who looked from one to the other
with puzzled eyes.
T HAT much I remembered of the night
in Limehouse. I told it to young Sub-
Lieutenant Bryan, and watched his eyes
glow with amusement as I described the
scene.
“Yes,” he said at length. “I was the
young merchant officer. Rotten job of
camouflage, no doubt. Captain Driscoll
was an old hand. Good thing he was, or
we’d never have carried it off. Willie
and Howie almost spoiled it that night.”
“I’m still putting two and two to¬
gether,” I said. “Captain Driscoll was in
command of the India Maid, of course.
And I know that information about sail¬
ings had been getting through to Ger¬
many. He probably figured it was com¬
ing from Limehouse, and he staged that
little scene to make sure a submarine
would be waiting when you sailed.”
“That’s it,” said Sub-Lieutenant Bry¬
an. “He’d sent the crew along to drink
and talk. Hadn’t counted upon Willie
Tinkham and Howard Knowles, though.
That was accident.”
I smiled. “Then they’d actually been
turned down by the Navy?”
“Certainly.”
“What did you do with them ?” I asked.
And once more I called the steward.
When he came to the table, I suggested
he leave the bottle.
Y OU can well understand (said Sub-
Lieutenant Bryan), the one thought
in Captain Driscoll’s mind was to get
that old pair of seamen out of the pub be¬
fore their tongues did too much damage.
There was no room aboard the India
Maid for civilians. Not on this trip.
But Willie and Howie didn’t stop to
think about that. We headed for the
Commercial Docks, and they marched
along with the crew, proud and happy as
could be.
There was fog that night. Willie
Tinkham drew a deep breath of it into
his chest and pursed his big lips. “Oh,
they’re ’angin’ Danny Deever in the
mornin’!” he sang. “The regiment’s in
column, an’ they’re mar chin' us aw’yl
An’ they’re ’angin’ Danny Deever in the
mornin’ I”
“Stow that! ” said one of the crew. He
looked sharply at the old seaman.
Willie drew himself erect. He must
have been a monster of a man in his day.
He was getting on for sixty, but you could
still see the rounds of muscle on his shoul¬
ders beneath the old blue pea-coat. His
eyes were deep-set, and he glared at the
man who had spoken.
“Mind yer lip, young-un,” he growled.
“I’ll ’ave yer know ye’re speakin’ wif
Gunner Tink’am of ’is Majesty’s Naivy! ”
He turned to the smaller man who
marched beside him. “Lack o’ discipline,
that’s whut I calls it, ’Owie. Lack o’
discipline! ”
“Aye,” said Howie. He thrust his head
forward, stretching the gaunt cords in
his old neck. “Lack o’ discipline, that’s
whut!”
I thought I heard Captain Driscoll
chuckle. I might have been wrong. The
Captain was Old Navy—hard in his ways.
He glanced back at the pair behind him.
“Stop that noise, Tinkham!” he said.
“Quiet, both of you!”
“Aye, sir,” said Willie. He nudged the
smaller man at his side. “Quiet, ’Owie!
Quiet it is!”
“Quiet it is,” echoed the little gunner.
At the docks Captain Driscoll sent the
crew aboard the India Maid. They went
silently, stepping along the narrow gang¬
way to the iron decks of the rusty old
freighter. Willie Tinkham started after
them, and Howie Knowles was at his
heels. Then I heard Captain Driscoll
draw a deep breath, as a man might who
is about to dive into deep and chilly
water.
“One moment, Tinkham,” he said. He
stepped in front of the ancient pair.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you
along with me this time. Might cause
trouble, you know. Extra men in the
ship’s company, and all that.” He’d used
up the first breath and drew another.
“Not that I wouldn’t like to have you
come along. Lord knows, I could use
two fine gunners like you and Knowles.
Best man I had aboard the Thunderer.
Regulations, though. Can’t be done.
Sorry.”
Willie had been standing tall and
straight. He slumped now. His shoul¬
ders drooped and on his face grew a wist¬
ful frown.
“Yer means we can’t come wif yer,
Cap’n?” he said slowly. “Yer means me
an’ ’Owie can’t come along?”
“I’m afraid that’s it,” said the Cap¬
tain.
Willie looked down at his friend. “Yer
’ear that, ’Owie?” he said. “The Cap’n
says we can’t come along.”
“Can’t come along?” said Howie. He
shook his head in evident bewilderment.
We left them, then: Two old men on
a fog-covered dock.
T HE India Maid cleared at midnight.
Morning found us threading the mine¬
fields that fan out from Dover. At times
a low gray destroyer would flash along¬
side while her officers studied us through
glasses. We weren’t a pretty picture.
Not worth a second glance from a man o’
war. Hardly worth the price of a torpedo
to a German submarine commander. The
India Maid belonged to the class of
freighters whose obituary notice usually
reads: “Sunk by shell-fire off the Irish
coast.”
Captain Driscoll walked his bridge
with a pipe between his teeth. His mer¬
chant jacket was open to the last button.
On deck a shiftless crew of eight men
went about their work of stowing lines
and clearing gear. There was no hurry.
Eight knots was our cruising speed, and
the India Maid moved stupidly along,
pushing her blunt bow into the waves that
a stiff sou’wester had built in the Chan¬
nel. At times the Captain would pause
to bawl an order to one of the mates.
One such order sent me to the boat-deck
with four men.
The lifeboats were to be swung out on
their .davits, a war-time precaution taken
by all merchantmen. One of the sea¬
men, at an order from me, had started to
fold back the dirty canvas cover of the
first boat. It fouled, and he climbed the
gunwale to clear the lashings. I saw his
eyes widen. His mouth was open, but
he seemed to be having difficulty with his
words.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wrong, sir?” he gasped. “We’ve a
couple of passengers, that’s ’ow! Stow¬
aways, no less 1 ”
A ND up they came—Willie and Howie
. of Rotherhithe. No word of apology.
They climbed over the side of the life¬
boat, dropped down onto the deck and
stood to attention.
“We’s reportin’ fer duty, sir,” said Wil¬
lie.
“Aye, sir,” echoed Howie. “Reportin’
fer duty.”
“How the devil did you get aboard?”
I asked.
“dumb aboard, sir,” said Willie. His
big hands jerked the creases from his pea-
coat, and there was reproach in his eyes.
“These New Naivy fellers keeps a woe¬
ful bad watch, sir. Woeful bad.”
“Woeful bad,” said Howie. He bobbed
his old head that was about even with
his partner’s shoulder. “Woeful bad fer
Naivy men, sir.”
It should have been funny, but it
wasn’t. I’d been in charge of the watch
before we cleared. And Captain Driscoll
wasn’t the man to wink at slackness.
Knowing what was coming to me, I told
those old fools exactly what I thought of
them. They never batted an eyelid.
Simply stood at attention and stared
straight ahead.
The Captain was in the starboard wing
of the bridge when I hustled the stow¬
aways before him. He jammed both
hands into the pockets of his jacket, and
waited until I had made my report. Then
he looked long at Willie.
“Decided to come along, did you, Tink¬
ham ?” he said finally.
“Yes sir,” said Willie.
“You know I ought to toss both of you
into the brig?”
“Yes sir.”
10
Captain Driscoll wiped a hand across
his jaw. “And you know damn’ well I
won’t.”
“We ’opes yer won’t,” said Willie.
“Aye, sir,” added Howie, “we ’opes
yer won’t.”
The Captain turned to look at the sea.
It was blue and clear and very bright.
Perhaps the sun-streak bothered his eyes.
W E were through and beyond the
mine-fields at sunset. The wind had
freshened, and the ship was taking them
over with a sickening regularity. A
merchant crew would have welcomed
those waves. Submarines don’t function
well in weather. Not the smaller ones, at
least. But there had been rumors lately
that the Germans had launched some of
those old type monsters.
“Big as cruisers, that’s whut,” said Wil¬
lie Tinkham. “Mounts a six-inch gun, an’
does twenty knots without ’arf tryin’.”
He was seated at a long wooden table
in what had once been the after hold of
the India Maid. Now it had been con¬
verted into crew’s quarters for a group
of men never seen on deck. Big fellows,
these. For as you’ve guessed, the India
Maid was the first of our new fleet of
Q-boats, and these men were two prize
gun-crews: the pick of the British Navy.
A blue lamp was set in the overhead.
It gave the place a ghostly touch, and
painted the faces of the men who watched
the card-players. Willie Tinkham dealt
slowly to his partner. He turned a card
and slapped the deck upon it.
“ ’Arts is trumps,” he said, “ ’an yer
owes me two shillin’.”
“Aye,” said Howie. “ ’Arts is trumps.”
Then it came—the rolling thud of a big
gun fired at close range. It was the sound
for which we had been waiting ever since
the India Maid left her dock in London.
It meant a submarine had risen to the
bait and had put a shell across our bow.
“Battle stations!” I ordered.
One crew raced toward a narrow pas¬
sage leading forward. The other leaped
to the iron ladder at hand. Ammunition-
handlers stood to their posts near the
racks, ready to pass along the blunt-nosed
shells, should the fight prove long. My
place was on the after gun. As I ran
toward the ladder, I remembered the two
old seamen.
“On deck, both of you,” I said. “Join
the panic-party. There’s still time to
get off.”
“We knows there’s time, sir,” said Wil¬
lie. He squinted at his cards, and played
a ten of clubs. “There’s always ’eaps
o’ time.”
“Aye,” said Howie. He put a diamond
on the ten and started to pick up the
trick. “ ’Eaps o’ time, sir. Just ’eaps
o’ time.”
Willie’s big hand slapped against the
table. “Caught yer, I did! You know
wery well ’arts is trumps, ’Owie Knowles!
You gimme that trick, that’s what!”
“Bli’me,” said Howie, and he shook
his head. “ ’Ow ever did I ferget ?”
Perhaps those two old-timers were pre¬
tending. I doubt it. At the time, I
thought they were both stark mad. I
looked above. The hatch leading to the
after deckhouse was clear, and I climbed
to take charge of the crew.
They were kneeling about the base of
our five-inch gun, peering through slots
in the bulkheads of the dummy super¬
structure. I knelt beside our gun-pointer
and glanced along the deck. The panic-
party had gone into action. It was up
to them to put on the show, and the en¬
tire deck-crew was running toward a life¬
boat on the port side. Behind them came
the black-gang, grimy men in sweat-
stained clothes. They fought with the
seamen, pushed them aside and tried to
swing the lifeboat clear. The second
mate drew his gun—threatened the crew.
He shouted meaningless orders.
“Nice work,” said the man beside me.
“Very nice,” I answered.
C aptain Driscoll had left the bridge,
and in his place was the first mate,
dressed in the Captain’s merchant jacket
and cap.
He shook his fist toward the sea, hur¬
ried down the ladder from the bridge and
joined the panic-party. The falls were
slacked quickly, and the lifeboat splashed
into the gray water. Oars were manned,
and the boat-crew pulled.
I went to another slot and looked at the
submarine awash off our port beam. Wil¬
lie had been right. The ship was almost
as long as a light cruiser, and on her for¬
ward deck was a six-inch gun. She was
star ding off at a distance of two thou¬
sand yards, while her officers studied the
India Maid through glasses.
“I could drop one right on her bridge,
sir,” said the gun-layer, one of the men
we had drawn from the Warspite. “I
could, sir, nice as you please.”
“You might,” I said, “but we can’t af¬
ford to risk it. She’ll come closer.”
That was a wish, and not a very good
one. The sub ran down-wind, circled
the India Maid and came up to star¬
board.
Still her officers were studying our
decks. Then the long barrel of her gun
swung, and I saw it line up with our
bridge. There was a burst of flame, and
I heard my first shell scream, . . .
It hit like a thunderbolt. The India
Maid lurched. One wing of her bridge
fell apart. A blue-gray cloud of smoke
lifted to join the black stream that poured
from her funnel. I glanced along the
deck toward a passage in the lower sec¬
tion of the bridge. Captain Driscoll was
there, screened from the watchers on the
submarine. He was no longer the care¬
less merchant skipper. There was gold
on the cuffs of his sleeves now. There
was gold on the visor of his cap.
He lifted one hand—held it palm down.
It was an order.
“Hold your fire,” I said to my men.
The India Maid had long since lost
headway. The submarine circled our
bow, careful to keep at a safe distance.
Then she ran alongside the lifeboat, and
her officers were questioning the men. It
was quiet in the deckhouse—so quiet I
12
officers were questioning the men of the panic-party.
could hear each man of the gun-crew
breathing. Minutes went by. They
might have been hours. Then the sub
squared off our port beam, and her gun
blazed. The shot burst at the rail, tear¬
ing away the coaming of a hatch. A
shell-fragment ripped through the flimsy
bulkhead of our deckhouse and spanged
against the gun barrel. I heard a man
gasp.
“Cowper’s got it, sir,” said the gun-lay¬
er. “Got it bad.”
“Take him below,” I ordered.
T WO thousand yards; perhaps a little
more. It was a good range for fight¬
ing. A destroyer would have asked noth¬
ing better. But the India Maid wasn’t a
destroyer. She was slow. She was old.
She had just one mission in life, one rea¬
son for existence. Captain Driscoll had
made no secret of it when he spoke to
the crew at sailing-time. “Under no con¬
dition,” he had said, “are you to fire un¬
til a submarine comes within one thou¬
sand yards. You may only get off one
shot, but that one must be a direct hit.
We’ll consider it a fair exchange—the
India Maid for a German submarine.”
And those were my orders.
I watched the crew on the deck of the
sub reload the gun. It was a taut crew.
Fast! No doubt the pick of the German
Navy had been put aboard that sub. She
deserved it. There was enough wind in
the Channel to keep her in constant mo¬
tion, but the gun-barrel never wavered.
They fired again, and the shell tore a
second hole in our bridge. The next
landed forward, and I wondered about
the men on our four-inch gun. They too
were waiting—crouching behind the col¬
lapsible walls of a dummy lifeboat on the
Number One hatch.
“Rotten bad shootin’, I calls it, sir,”
said a quiet voice at my elbow.
It was Willie Tinkham. The old fak¬
er was squatting below the breech of our
gun, playing a hand of pinochle with
Howie Knowles. His upper lip was
drawn between his teeth, and he shook
his head in evident disapproval as he
melded a marriage. Howie, as usual,
acted as his mirror. The little gunner
sat cross-legged on deck studying his
cards.
“Aye, rotten bad shootin’, even fer
’Uns,” he said. His eyes were troubled.
“Look ’ere, Wullie—I’ve lost a card, so
I ’ave.”
“Trust you fer that! ” said Willie. He
sighed and looked up at the waiting gun¬
crew. “ ’As any o’ you young gentlemun
got a spare deck about yer? We’ll be
most careful of it.”
That brought a laugh, and I forgave
them their sins. Lord knows, we needed
a laugh in that deckhouse. Tension had
been growing. Serving a gun is one thing
—waiting patiently under shell-fire is
quite another. And we had to wait. Had
to take everything the sub could hand
us, until she came within a thousand
yards.
Captain Driscoll had left the passage
—gone forward to keep an eye on the
13
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
other gun crew. The sub was cruising
past our stern, standing well off and hold¬
ing her fire. I judged the distance to be
over two thousand yards, frothing to dp
but wait. She slipped by to starboard)
crossed our bow and ran down to port.
The silence was ominous. Par worse
than shell-fire.
“Do you think she’s wise, sir?" asked
a powder-man.
I wished he hadn’t asked. It was the
same question that had been troubling
me- Not a pleasant thought. We’d all
heard stories of Q-boats that had been
caught by the subs in the old war. The
Germans had played cat-and-mouse with
them. Cleared their decks with shrap¬
nel. Machine-gunned the lifeboats. All
fair enough, and part of a war, but not
nice to think about.
"QIXTY queens,” said Willie. He put
O down his meld and glanced casually
at the powder-man. Then he looked at his
partner. “Just as I feared, ’Owie. This
’ere new generaytion haint got no pa¬
tience. No patience at all.”
“No patience at all,” said Howie.
“Take a card.”
If these old seamen could put on such
a show, the least I could do was carry
on. I tried, but I couldn’t laugh. Not
now. A shell hurst forward, and the
India Maid staggered. I heard a scream.
Not a loud scream; it was as though the
sound had been torn from the throat of
a stricken man, despite tightly clenched
teeth.
“They got the for’ard gun, sir,” said
the powder-man.
“I’m afraid so, Bonnet,” I answered.
His face was gray. I’m sure mine was
too.
“Forty pinochle,” said Willie Tink-
ham. And again he looked up at the
powder-man. “Only takes one gun to
sink a sub, sonny. Yer got a wery fine
gun right .’ere. Best gun I ever see, haint
it, ’Owie?”
“Oh, wery fine,” said Howie. He lifted
one hand to pat the shining breech. “A
wery fine gun indeed. Take a card, Wul-
lie.”
Fifteen hundred yards. Perhaps it was
pnly a thousand. They’d holed us twice
in the past five minutes. How could a
man count yards when his ship was sink¬
ing under his feet ? I looked toward the
place where the passage had been. There
was a smoking heap of twisted wreckage
there now. There was a man there, too
—in a torn blue coat with gold on the
cuffs of the sleeves. Ope arm hung Ump,
but the other was held at shoulder height.
The hand was still palm down.
“Not yet," I saiff to the crew.
A man sobbed. I didn’t blame him.
A shell had cleared the bridge, and we
we could spe what was left of the forward
gqn. And the crew. Captain Driscoll
was crawling toward qs, hidden by the
rim of the hatch. At times he paused
to lopk toward the sea. Counting the
yards. Waiting-The sub’s gun flared.
Spinning steel crashed through the bulk¬
heads. It whirled along the deck. I
looked again for Captain Driscoll. Blue-
gray smoke lifted above the batch, but
the torn bine coat with the gold on its
cuffs was gone. Gone forever.
“Dow long must we wait, sir?” cried
the gun-layer. “Gord above, sir—how
long?”
“Lots o’ time,” said Willie Tinkham.
“As Kiplin’ wrote in a wery fine book,
‘When patience is a wirtue, it be a sin
to waste good ammunition.’ Them’s ’is
wery words, lad. I read ’em meself.”
Fifteen hundred yards. She was com¬
ing closer, swinging her bow toward us.
I lifted my hand. Held it rigid. Just a
little closer. A hundred yards closer.
Fifty. She must be within the limit
now.
“Such impatience,” said Willie Tink¬
ham. “In the Old Naivy, we always
waited much longer, didn’ we, ’Owie?”
“Aye,” said Howie. “Much longer.”
Now was the time. I dropped my
hand, and the gun-crew leaped toward
the bulkheads. They pulled the taugles
and threw down the wooden screens—
stepped smartly to the gun.
“Range, one-o double-o! Scale, five-o! ”
I cried. “Fire when you’re on!”
The crash of an exploding shell cov¬
ered my words. The Germans had beat¬
en us to it. Done a good job with this
one—a butcher’s job. Something tugged
at my arm. At my leg. I tried to stand,
tried to push myself up from the deck.
It was no use. Men were down all about
me—crawling and moaning.
I saw what was left of the gun-point¬
er’s face.
“One shell!” I cried. “Just one!”
A TALL, gaunt man climbed out of the
ruins. He shook his head and wiped
blood from his lips. He stumbled for¬
ward. He bent and pulled another man
erect.
“Get up orf yer ’unkers, ’Owie,” he
said. “Wbut yer doin’ down there, eh ?”
14
CARRY ON!
“Restin’, that’s whut,”
“No time fer restin’. Find the flag,
’Owie.”
“Righto!” said the little gunner. He
pointed a dripping hand toward a staff
caught beneath one wall of the deck¬
house. He lifted the staff and shook it,
freed the red-crossed battle standard that
flies above a British man-o’-war. Then
he wedged it tightly in a gash in the deck.
“Take a good look at that, yer blinkin’
’Uns! ” he called. He shook a fist toward
the sea. “An’ now let’s see ’ow yer can
fight!”
The rest is a dream. A mad whirling
nightmare. I saw the gray barrel swing
toward the sub. Heard the gun crash,
and tried to get another shell into the
breech. A man was beside me. A scare¬
crow figure with only one arm. He was
pawing at a powder-case. A dark shape
took it and moved away. Again the gun
spewed flame.
“That was ’igh, Wullie,” said a voice.
“Just a mite ’igh. Do yer think maybe
we’re gettin’ old?”
“Seems like,” said his partner. “Up a
bit! Ah—that’s fine. Fine I”
T HE flash of the gun and the shock of
the recoil. . . . Those two old men
talking as they fired. One coaxing the
other. Broken men limping forward
with a shell for the breech. Cursing men,
who stumbled to their knees and couldn’t
get up again. All turning and twisting
in a red dream.
“Woeful bad shootin’ fer gunners as
served aboard the old Thunderer,” said
Willie. “Can’t yer keep on the blighters,
’Owie?”
“Aye,” said Howie. “I’m on, pretty
as a duck. Fire, Wullie. Fire, why don’t
yer ?”
“Fire, says you? An’ ’ow can I fire
a h’empty gun ?”
“Whut—no loaders left?”
“Not a blinkin’ soul, ’Owie.”
“Fancy that, naow,” said the little gun¬
ner. “An’ whut about th’ young-un in
command? ’As ’e gone along wif th’
rest ?”
Something tugged at my jacket. I
looked up into the red ruin of an old
face—part of a face.
“Not quite gone,” said Willie. “Whut
say we send ’im ’ome?”
“Aye,” said Howie. “We’ll send ’im
’ome.”
I was pulled to my knees and dragged
clear of the gun. No use to protest. They
didn’t hear me. Wouldn’t hear me. A
lifebelt was strapped about my shoulders.
I remember striking at that broken face.
It laughed.
“Bli’me!” said a deep voice. “The
young-un don’t want to leave us. Stout
feller, ’ey whut? Would yer say ’e’s fit
to carry on ?”
“Aye,” said Howie. “Wery fit indeed.”
I T tells long—but it happened in a mo¬
ment. Neither had the strength to lift
me. They dragged me across the slant¬
ing deck. I felt cold water about my
shoulders. A wave hit my face.
“Orf yer go, sir,” said Willie. “The
panic-party’s ’eadin’ back. Cornin’ fast,
they is, sir. You’ll be safe aboard in a
jiffy.”
I shook my head. Cursed them. Wil¬
lie of Rotherhithe stood waist-deep on
the slanting deck and pushed me into the
sea. I ordered him to leave. . . . Begged
them both to leave before the India Maid
sank under their feet.
“We thanks yer kindly, sir,” said Wil¬
lie, “but we’d like to stay an’ ’ave another
try. An’ if yer thinkin’ as ’ow we done
a woeful bad job fer gunners as served
aboard the Thunderer, we arsks yer kind
indulgence, because our eyes is old. Still,
we’d like to stay an’ ’ave another try.”
“Aye,” said Howie. “We’d like an¬
other try.”
Then I was alone in a dark sea. I
watched the stern of the India Maid
drifting away—watched the two old men
stagger toward a silent gun. The long
barrel swung. Flame leaped from its
mouth. It tore a red gash in the night.
.... And this time the shell found its
target.
“Got ’em!” cried Willie of Rother¬
hithe. His voice was thin in the dis¬
tance. “Pretty as yer please, ’Owie! Got
’em, I did!”
“You did?” said his partner. “An’
whut, may I arsk, would yer say I wuz
doin’?”
There was the sound of oars, and the
ripple of water curling from a lifeboat’s
bow.
Then a hand touched my shoulder—
drew me clear of the sea and into the
boat. About me men were standing with
their faces turned toward the sinking
freighter. I looked, too. I saw the dark
water close over the India Maid’s stern.
And as she went, I thought I heard an
old voice call: “Carry on, young-uns!
Carry on!” I thought I heard another
join it: “Aye, young-uns! Carry on!”
It might have been only the wind.
15
Tarzan and the
The old hero (and little Nkima) returns
to us in a swift-moving novelette.
IX—seven—eight—nine—
ten!” The referee stepped to
a neutral corner and hoisted
Mullargan’s right hand. “The
winnah and new champion! ” he shouted.
For a moment the audience, which only
partially filled Madison Square Garden,
sat in stunned and stupefied silence; then
there was a burst of applause, intermin¬
gled with which was an almost equal vol¬
ume of boos. It wasn’t that the booers
questioned the correctness of the deci¬
sion—they just didn’t like Mullargan, a
notoriously dirty fighter. Doubtless, too,
many of them had had their dough on
the champion.
Joey Marks, Mullargan’s manager,
and the other man who had been in his
corner crawled through the ropes and
slapped Mullargan on the back; photog¬
raphers, sports-writers, police, and a part
of the audience converged on the ring;
jittery news-commentators bawled the
epochal tidings to a waiting world.
The former champion, revived but a
bit wobbly, crossed the ring and prof¬
fered a congratulatory hand to Mullar¬
gan. The new champion did not take
the hand. “Gwan, you bum,” he said, and
turned his back....
“One-Punch” Mullargan had come a
long way in a little more than a year—
from amateur to preliminary fighter, to
Heavyweight Champion of the World;
and he had earned his sobriquet. He had,
in truth, but one punch; and he needed
but that one—a lethal right to the button.
Sometimes he had had to wait several
rounds before he found an opening, but
eventually he had always found it. The
former champion, a ten-to-one favorite
at ringside, had gone down in the third
round. Since then, One-Punch Mullargan
had fought but nine rounds; yet he had
successfully defended his championship
six times, leaving three men with broken
jaws and one with a fractured skull.
After all, who wishes his skull fractured?
So One-Punch Mullargan decided to
take a vacation and do something he al¬
ways had wanted to do but which fate
Copyright, 1940, by Ed
had always heretofore intervened to pre¬
vent. Several years before, he had seen a
poster which read, “Join The Navy And
See The World;” he had always re¬
membered that poster; and now, with a
vacation on his hands, Mullargan decided
to go and see the world for himself, with¬
out any assistance from Navy or Marines.
“I aint never seen Niag’ra Falls,” said
his manager. “That would be a nice
place to go for a vacation. If we was to
go there, that would give Niag’ra Falls a
lot of publicity too.”
“Niag’ra Falls, my foot!” said Mullar¬
gan. “We’re goin’ to Africa.”
“Africa,” mused Mr. Marks. “That’s
a hell of a long ways off—down in South'
America somewheres. Wot you wanna
go there for?”
“Huntin’. You seen them heads in that
uy’s house what we were at after the
ght the other night, didn’t you ? Lions,
buffaloes, elephants. Gee! That must be
some sport.”
“We aint lost no lions, kid,” said
Marks. There was a note of pleading in
his voice. “Listen, kid: stick around here
for a couple more fights; then you’ll have
enough potatoes to retire on, and you can
go to Africa or any place you want to—
but not me.”
“I’m goin’ to Africa, and you’re goin’
with me. If you want to get some public¬
ity out of it, you better call up them
newspaper bums.”
S ports-writers and camera-men milled
about the champion on the deck of
the ship ten days later. Bulbs flashed;
shutters clicked; reporters shot questions;
passengers crowded closer with craning
necks; a girl elbowed her way through the
throng with an autograph album.
“When did he learn to write?” demand¬
ed a Daily News man.
“Wise guy,” growled Mullargan.
“Give my love to Tarzan when you get
to Africa,” said another.
“And don’t get fresh with him, or he’ll
take you apart,” interjected the Daily
News man.
ir Rice Burroughs, Inc.
“I seen that bum in pitchers,” said
Mullargan. “He couldn’t take nobody
apart.”
“I’ll lay you ten to one he could K.O.
you in the first round,” taunted the Daily
News man.
“You aint got ten, you bum,” retorted
the champion.
A HEAVILY laden truck lumbered
along the edge of a vast plain under
the guns of the forest which had halted
here, sending out a scattering of pickets
to reconnoiter the terrain held by the ene¬
my. Why the tree army never advanced,
why the plain always held its own—these
are mysteries.
And the lorry was a mystery to the
man far out on the plain, who watched its
slow advance. He knew that there were
no tracks there, that perhaps since crea¬
tion this was the first wheeled vehicle
that had ever passed this way.
A white man in a disreputable sun-hel¬
met drove the truck; beside him sat a
black man; sprawled on top of the load
were several other blacks. The lengthen¬
ing shadow of the forest stretched far
beyond the crawling anachronism, mark¬
ing the approach of the brief equatorial
twilight.
The man out upon the plain set his
course so that he might meet the truck.
He moved with an easy, sinuous stride
that was almost catlike in its smoothness.
He wore no clothes other than a loin¬
cloth; his weapons were primitive: a
quiver of arrows and a bow at his back.
a hunting-knife in a rude scabbard at his
hip, a short, stout spear that he carried in
his hand. Looped across one shoulder and
beneath the opposite arm was a coil of
grass rope. The man was very dark, but
he was not a negro. A lifetime beneath
the African sun accounted for his bronzed
skin.
Upon his shoulder squatted a little
monkey, one arm around the bronzed
neck. “Tarmangani, Nkima,” said the
man, looking in the direction of the
truck.
“Tarmangani,” chattered the monkey.
“Nkima and Tarzan will kill the tarman¬
gani.” He stood up and blew out his
cheeks and looked very ferocious. At a
great distance from an enemy, or when
upon the shoulder of his master, little
Nkima was a lion at heart. His courage
was in inverse ratio to the distance that
separated him from Tarzan, and in direct
ratio to that which lay between himself
and danger. If little Nkima had been a
man, he would probably have been a
gangster and certainly a bully; but he
still would have been a coward. Being
just a little monkey, he was only amus¬
ing. He did, however, possess one char¬
acteristic which, upon occasion, elevated
him almost to heights of sublimity. That
was his self-sacrificing loyalty to his mas¬
ter, Tarzan.
At last the man on the truck saw the
man on foot, saw that they were going to
meet a little farther on. He shifted his
pistol to a more accessible position and
loosened it in its holster. He glanced at
the rifle that the boy beside him was hold¬
ing between his knees, and saw that it
was within easy reach. He had never
been in this locality before, and did not
know the temper of the natives. It was
well to take precautions. As the distance
between them lessened, he sought to
identify the stranger.
“Mtu mweusi?” he inquired of the boy
beside him, who was also watching the
approaching stranger.
“Mzungu, bwana,” replied the boy.
“I guess you’re right,” agreed the man.
“I guess he’s a white man, all right, but
he’s sure dressed up like a native.”
“Menyi wazimo,” laughed the boy.
“I got two crazy men on my hands
now,” said the man. “I don’t want an¬
other.” He brought the truck to a stop
as Tarzan approached.
L ittle Nkima was chattering and scold-
t ing fiercely, baring his teeth in what
he undoubtedly thought was a terrifying
snarl. Nobody paid any attention to
him, but he held his ground until Tarzan
was within fifty feet of the truck; then
he leaped to the ground and sought the
safety of a tree near by. After all, what
was the use of tempting fate?
Tarzan stopped beside the truck and
looked up into the white man’s face.
“What are you doing here ?” he asked.
Melton, looking down upon an almost
naked man, felt his own superiority; and
resented the impertinence of the query.
Incidentally, he had noted that the
stranger carried no firearms.
“I’m drivin’ a lorry, buddy,” he said.
“Answer my question.” This time Tar-
zan’s tone had an edge to it.
Melton had had a hard day. As a mat¬
ter of fact, he had had a number of hard
days. He was worried, and his nerves
were on edge. His hand moved to the
butt of his pistol as he formulated a
caustic rejoinder, but he never voiced it.
Tarzan’s arm shot out; his hand seized
Melton’s wrist and dragged the man from
the cab of the truck. An instant later he
was disarmed.
Nkima danced up and down upon the
branch of his tree and hurled jungle bil¬
lingsgate at the enemy, intermittently
screaming at Tarzan to kill the tarman-
gani. No one paid any attention to him.
That was a cross that Nkima always had
to bear. He was so little and insignifi¬
cant that no one ever paid any attention
to him.
The blacks on the truck sat in wide-
eyed confusion. The thing had happened
so suddenly that it had caught their wits
off guard. They saw the stranger drag¬
ging Melton away from the truck, shak¬
ing him as a dog shakes a rat. Tarzan
had learned from experience that there is
no surer way of reducing a man to sub¬
servience than by shaking him. Perhaps
he knew nothing of the psychology of the
truth, but he knew the truth.
The latter was a powerful man, but he
was helpless in the grip of the stranger;
and he was frightened, too. There was
something more terrifying about this
creature than his superhuman strength.
There was the quite definite sensation of
being in the clutches of a wild beast, so
that his reactions were much the same as
they had been many years before when
he had been mauled by a lion—something
of a fatalistic resignation to the inevi¬
table.
Tarzan stopped shaking Melton and
turned his eyes on the boy with the rifle,
who had jumped down from the truck.
“Throw down the rifle,” he said in
Swahili.
The boy hesitated. “Throw it down,”
ordered Melton; and then, to Tarzan:
“What do you want of me ?”
“I asked you what you were doing here.
I want an answer.”
“I’m guidin’ a couple of bloomin’
Yanks.”
“Where are they?”
Melton shrugged. “Gawd only knows.
They started out early this morning in a
light car, and told me to keep along the
edge of the forest. Said they’d come back
an’ meet me later in the day. They’re
probably lost. They’re both balmy.”
“What are they doing here?” asked
Tarzan.
“Hunting.”
“Why did you bring them here? This
is closed territory.”
“I didn’t bring ’em here; they brought
me. You can’t tell Mullargan nothing.
He’s one of those birds that knows it all.
He don’t need a guide; what he needs is
a keeper. He’s Heavyweight Champion
of the World, and it’s gone to his head.
Try to tell him anything, and he’s just
as likely as not to slap you down. He’s
knocked the boys around something aw¬
ful. I never saw such a rotten bounder in
my life. The other one aint so bad. He’s
Mullargan’s manager. That’s a laugh.
Manager, my eye! All he says is, ‘Yes,
kid! ’ ‘Okay, kid! ’ and all he wants to do
is get back to New York. He’s scared to
death all the time. I wish to hell they was
both back in New York. I wish I was
rid of ’em.”
“Are they out alone?” asked Tarzan.
“Yes.”
“Then you may be rid of them. This is
lion country. I have never seen them
so bad.”
Melton whistled. “Then I got to push
on and try to find ’em. I don’t like ’em,
but I’m responsible for ’em. You”—he
hesitated—“you aint goin’ to try to stop
me, are you?”
“No,” said Tarzan. “Go and find them,
and tell them to get out of this country
and stay out.” Then he started on toward
the forest.
When he had gone a short distance,
Melton called to him. “Who are you,
anyway?” he demanded.
The ape-man paused and turned
around. “I am Tarzan,” he said.
Again Melton whistled. He climbed
back into the cab of the truck and started
the motor; and as the heavy vehicle got
slowly under way, Tarzan disappeared
into the forest.
T HE sun swung low into the west, and
the lengthening shadow of the forest
stretched far out into the plain. A light
car bounced and bumped over the uneven
ground. There were two men in the car.
One of them drove, and the other braced
himself and held on. His eyes were red-
rimmed ; he sneezed almost continuously.
“Fer cripe’s sake, kid, can’t you slow
down?” wailed Marks. “Aint this hay-
fever bad enough without you tryin’ to
jounce the liver out of me ?”
19
For answer, Mullargan pressed the ac¬
celerator down a little farther.
“You won’t have no springs or no tires
or no manager, if you don’t slow down.”
“I don’t need no manager no more.”
That struck Mullargan as being so funny
that he repeated it. “I don’t need no
manager no more; so I bounces him out
in Africa. Gee, wouldn’t dat give the
guys a laugh! ”
“Don’t get no foolish ideas in your
head, kid. You need a smart fella like
me, all right. All you got is below them
big cauliflower ears of yours.”
“Is zat so?”
“Yes, zat’s so.”
Mullargan slowed down a little, for it
had suddenly grown dark. He switched
on the lights. “It sure gets dark in a hur¬
ry here,” he commented. “I wonder why.”
“It’s the altitude, you dope,” explained
Marks.
They rode on in silence for a while.
Marks glanced nervously to right and
left, for with the coming of night, the en¬
tire aspect of the scene had changed as
though they had been suddenly tossed
into a strange world. The plain was dim¬
ly limned in the ghostly light of pale
stars; the forest was solid, impenetrable
blackness.
“Forty-second Street would look pretty
swell right now,” observed Marks.
“So would some grub,” said Mullar¬
gan; “my belly’s wrapped around my
backbone. I wonder what became of that
so-an’-so. I told him to keep right on till
he met us. Them English is too damn’
cocky—think they know it all, tellin’ me
not to do this an’ not to do that. I guess
the Champeen of the World can take care
of himself, all right.”
“You said it, kid.”
T HE silence of the plain was broken by
the grunting of a hunting lion. It was
still some distance away, but the sound
came plainly to the ears of the two men.
“What was that ?” queried Mullargan.
“A pig,” said Marks.
“If it was daylight, we might get a shot
at it,” observed Mullargan. “A bunch of
pork chops wouldn’t go so bad right now.
You know, Joey, I been thinkin’ me and
you could get along all right without that
English so-an’-so.”
“Who’d drive the truck?”
“That’s so,” admitted Mullargan; “but
he’s got to stop treatin’ us like we was a
couple o’ kids and he was our nurse-girl.
Pretty soon I’m goin’ to get sore and
hand him one.”
“Look!” exclaimed Marks. “There’s
a light—it must be the truck.”
When the two cars met, the tired men
dropped to the ground and stretched stiff¬
ened limbs and cramped muscles.
“Where you been?” demanded Mullar¬
gan.
“Coming right along ever since we
broke camp,” replied Melton. “You know
this bus can’t cover the ground like that
light car of yours, and you must have
covered a lot of it today. Any luck?”
“No. I don’t believe there’s any game
around here.”
“There’s plenty. If you’ll make a per¬
manent camp somewhere, as I’ve been
telling you, we’ll get something.”
“We seen some buffaloes today,” said
Marks, “but they got away.”
“They went into some woods,” ex¬
plained Mullargan. “I followed ’em in on
foot, but they got away.”
“Lucky for you they did,” observed
Melton.
“What you mean—lucky for me?”
“If you’d shot one of ’em, you’d prob¬
ably have been killed. I’d rather face a
lion any day than a wounded buffalo.”
“Maybe you would,” said Mullargan,
“but I aint afraid of no cow.”
M ELTON shrugged, turned and set
the boys to making camp. We’ve
got to camp where we are,” he said to
the other two whites. “We couldn’t find
water now; and we’ve got enough any¬
way, such as it is. Anyway, tomorrow
we must turn back.”
“Turn back?” exclaimed Mullargan.
“Who says we gotta turn back ? I come
here to hunt, an’ I’m goin’ to hunt.”
“I met a man back there a way who
says this is closed territory. He told me
we’d have to get out.”
“Oh, he did, did he? Who the hell
does he think he is, tellin’ me to get out ?
Did you tell him who I was ?”
“Yes, but he didn’t seem to be much
impressed.”
“Well, I’ll impress him if I see him.
Who was he ?”
“His name is Tarzan.”
“Dat bum ? Does he think he can run
me out of Africa?”
“If he tells you to leave this part of
Africa, you’d better,” Melton advised.
“I’ll leave when I get good an’ damn’
ready,” said Mullargan.
“I’m ready to go right now,” said
Marks, between sneezes. “This here Af¬
rica aint no place for a guy with hay-
fever.”
20
The boys were unloading the truck,
hurrying to make camp. One was build¬
ing a fire preparatory to cooking supper.
There was much laughter, and now and
then a snatch of native song. One of the
boys, carrying a heavy load from the
truck, accidentally bumped into Mullar-
an and threw him off his balance. The
ghter swung a vicious blow at the black
with his open palm, striking him across
the side of his head and knocking him to
the ground.
“You’ll look where you’re goin’ next
time,” he growled.
Melton came up to him. “That’ll be
all of that,” he said. “I’ve stood it as long
as I’m goin’ to. Don’t ever hit another
of these boys.”
“So you’re lookin’ for it too, are you ?”
shouted Mullargan. “All right, you’re
goin’ to get it.”
Before he could strike, Melton drew his
pistol and covered him. “Come on,” he
invited. “I’m just waitin’ for the chance
to plead guilty to killin’ you in self-de¬
fense.”
Mullargan stood staring at the gun for
several seconds; then he turned away.
Later he confided to Marks: “Them Eng¬
lish aint got no sense of humor. He
might of seen I was just kiddin’.”
The evening meal was a subdued affair.
Conversation could not accurately have
been said to lag, since it did not even
exist until the meal was nearly over; then
the grunting of a lion was heard close to
the camp.
“There’s that pig again,” said Mullar¬
gan. “Maybe we can get him now.”
“What pig ?” asked Melton.
“You must be deaf,” said Mullargan.
“Can’t you hear him ?”
“Cripes! ” exclaimed Marks. “Look at
his eyes shine out there.”
Melton rose and stepping to the side
of the truck switched on the spotlight
and swung it around upon the eyes. In
the circle of bright light stood a full-
grown lion. Just for a moment he stood
there; then he turned and slunk off into
the darkness.
“Pig 1 ” said Mullargan, disgustedly.
A chocolate-colored people are the
Babangos, with good features and
well-shaped heads. Their teeth are not
filed; yet they are inveterate man-eaters.
There are no religious implications in
their cannibalism, no superstitions. They
eat human flesh because they like it, be¬
cause they prefer it to any other food;
and like true gourmets, they know how to
prepare it. They hunt man as other men
hunt game animals, and they are hated
and feared throughout the territory that
they raid.
21
Recently, word had been brought to
Tarzan that the Babangos had invaded a
remote portion of that vast domain which,
from boyhood, he had considered his
own; and Tarzan had come, making
many marches, to investigate. Behind
him, moving more slowly, came a band of
his own white-plumed Waziri warriors,
led by Muviro, their famous chief. . . .
It was the morning following Tarzan’s
encounter with Melton. The ape-man
was swinging along just inside the forest
at the edge of the plain, his every sense
alert. There was no slightest suggestion
of caution in his free stride and confident
demeanor; yet he moved as silently as a
shadow. He saw the puff adder in the
grass and the python waiting in the tree
to seize its prey from above, and he avoid¬
ed them. He made a little detour, lest he
pass beneath a trumpet tree from which
black ants might drop upon and sting
him.
P RESENTLY he halted and turned,
looking back along the edge of the
forest and the plain. Neither you nor I
could have heard what he heard, because
our lives have not depended to a great ex¬
tent upon the keenness of our hearing.
There are wild beasts which have notori¬
ously poor eyesight, but none with poor
hearing or a deficient sense of smell.
Tarzan, being a man and therefore poorly
equipped by nature to survive in his sav¬
age world, had developed all his senses to
an extraordinary degree; and so it was
that now he heard pounding hoofs in the
far distance long before you or I could
have. And he heard another sound—a
sound as strange to that locale as would
be the after-kill roar of a lion on Park
Avenue: the exhaust of a motor.
They were coming closer now; and
they were coming fast. And now there
came another sound, drowning out the
first—the staccato of a machine-gun.
Presently they tore past him—a herd of
zebra; and clinging to their flank was a
light car. One man drove, and the other
pumped lead from a sub-machine-gun in¬
to the fleeing herd. Zebra fell, some
killed, some only maimed; but the car
sped on, its occupants ignoring the suf¬
fering beasts in its wake.
Tarzan, helpless to prevent it, viewed
the slaughter in cold anger. He had wit¬
nessed the brutality of game-hogs before,
but never anything like this. His esti¬
mate of man, never any too high, reached
nadir. He went out into the plain and
mercifully put out of their misery those
of the animals which were hopelessly
wounded, following the trail of destruc¬
tion in the direction that the car had
taken. Eventually he would come upon
the two men again, and there would be an
accounting.
Far ahead of him, the survivors of the
terrified herd plunged into a rocky gul¬
ly ; and clambering up the opposite side,
disappeared over the ridge as Mullargan
brought the car to a stop near the bot¬
tom.
“Gee! ” he exclaimed. “Was dat sport!
When I gets all my heads up on a wall,
I’ll make that Park Avenue guy look like
a piker."
“You sure cleaned ’em up, kid,” said
Marks. “That was some shootin’.”
“I wasn’t a expert rifleman in the Ma¬
rine Corps for nothin’, Joey. Now if I
could just run into a flock of lions—boy! ”
The forest came down into the head of
the gorge, and the trees grew thickly to
within a hundred yards of the car. There
was a movement among the trees there,
but neither of the dull-witted men were
conscious of it. They had lighted cigars
and were enjoying a few moments of
relaxation.
“I guess we better start back an’ mop
up," said Mullargan. “I don’t want to
lose none of ’em. Say, at this rate I
ought to take back about a thousand
heads if we put in a full month. I’ll sure
give them newspaper bums somep’n to
write about when I get home. I’ll have
one of them photographer bums take my
pitcher settin’ on top of a thousand heads
—all kinds. That’ll get in every news¬
paper in the U. S.”
22
“It sure will, kid,” agreed Marks.
“We’ll sure give Africa a lot of publicity.”
As the spoke, his eyes were on the forest
up the gorge. Suddenly his brows knit¬
ted. “Say, kid, lookit! What’s that?”
Mullargan looked, and then cautiously
picked up the machine-gun. “S-s-shl”
he cautioned. “That’s a elephant. What
luck!” He raised the muzzle of the
weapon and squeezed the trigger. An
elephant trumpeted and lurched out into
the open. It was followed by another and
another, until seven of the great beasts
were coming toward them; then the gun
jammed.
“Hell! ” exclaimed Mullargan. “They’ll
get away before I can clear this.”
“They aint goin’ away,” said Marks.
“They’re cornin’ for us.”
The elephants, poor of eyesight, finally
located the car. Their trunks and their
great ears went up, as, trumpeting, they
charged; but by that time Mullargan had
cleared the gun and was pouring lead
into them again. One elephant went
down. Others wavered and turned aside.
It was too much for them—too much for
all but one, a great bull, which, mad¬
dened by the pain of many wounds, car¬
ried the charge home.
The sound of the machine-gun ceased.
Mullargan threw the weapon down in
disgust. “Beat it, Joey! ” he yelled; “the
drum’s empty.”
The two men tumbled over the oppo¬
site side of the car as the bull struck it.
The weight of the great body, the terrific
impact, rolled the car over, wheels up.
The bull staggered and lurched forward,
falling across the chassis, dead.
The two men came slowly back.
“Gee!” said Mullargan. “Look wot he
went an’ done to that jalopy! Henry
wouldn’t never recognize it now.” He got
down on his hands and knees and tried to
peer underneath the wreck.
Marks was shaking, like an aspen.
“Suppose he hadn’t of croaked,” he said;
“where would we of been ? Wot we goin’
to do now?”
“We gotta wait here until the truck
comes. Our guns is all underneath that
mess. Maybe the truck can drag the big
bum off. We gotta have our guns.”
“I wish to Gawd I was back on Broad¬
way,” said Marks, sneezing, “where there
aint no elephants or no hay.”
L ittle Nkima was greatly annoyed. In
a the first place, the blast of the
machine-gun had upset him. It had
frightened him so badly that he had
abandoned the sanctuary of his lord and
master’s shoulder and scampered to the
uttermost pinnacle of a near-by tree.
When Tarzan had gone out on the plain,
he had followed; and he didn’t like it at
all out on the plain, because the fierce
African sun beat down, and there was no
rotection. And he was further annoyed
ecause he had continued to hear the
nerve-shattering sound intermittently for
quite some time, and it came from the di¬
rection in which they were going. As he
scampered along behind, he scolded his
master; for little Nkima saw no sense in
looking for trouble in a world in which
there was already more than enough look¬
ing for you.
Tarzan had heard the sound of the
gunning, the squeals of hurt elephants
and the trumpeting of angry elephants;
and he visualized the brutal tragedy as
clearly as though he saw it with his eyes;
and his anger rose so that he forgot the
law of the white man, for Tantor the ele¬
phant was his best friend. It was a wild
beast, a killer, that set out at a brisk trot
in the direction from which the sounds
had come.
The sounds that had come to the ears
of Tarzan and the ears of Nkima had
come also to other ears in the dense forest
beyond the gorge. Their owners were
slinking through the shaded gloom on
silent, stealthy feet to reconnoiter. They
came warily, for they knew the sounds
meant white men; and many white men
with guns were bad medicine. They
hoped that there were not too many.
As Tarzan reached the edge of the
gorge and looked down upon the scene
below, other eyes looked down from the
opposite side.
These other eyes saw Tarzan; but the
trees and the underbrush hid them from
him, and the wind being at his back, their
scent was not carried to his nostrils.
Of the two men in the gorge, Marks was
the first to see Tarzan. He called Mullar-
gan’s attention to him, and the two men
watched the ape-man descending slowly
23
toward them. Nkima, sensing trouble, re¬
mained at the summit, chattering and
scolding. Tarzan approached the two
men in silence.
“Wot you want?” demanded Mullar-
gan, reaching for the gun at his hip.
“You kill?” asked Tarzan, pointing at
the dead elephant, and in his anger, re¬
verting to the monosyllabic grunts which
were reminiscent of his introduction to
English many years before.
“Yes—so what?” Mullargan’s tone was
nasty.
“Tarzan kill,” said the ape-man, and
stepped closer. He was five feet from
Mullargan when the latter whipped his
pistol from its holster and fired. But
quick as Mullargan had been, Tarzan had
been quicker. He struck the weapon up,
and the bullet whistled harmlessly into
the air; then he tore the gun from the
other’s hand and hurled it aside.
Mullargan grinned, a twisted, sneering
grin. The poor boob was pretty fresh, he
thought, getting funny like that with the
Heavyweight Champion of the World.
“So you’re dat Tarzan bum,” he said;
then he swung that lethal right of his
straight for Tarzan’s chin.
He was much surprised when he missed.
He was more surprised when the ape-man
dealt him a terrific blow on the side of the
head with his open palm, a blow that
felled him, half-stunned.
Marks danced about in consternation
and terror. “Get up, you bum,” he yelled
at Mullargan; “get up and kill him.”
N KIMA jumped up and down at the
edge of the gorge, hurling defiance
and insults at the tarmangani. Mullargan
came slowly to his feet. Instinctively, he
had taken a count of nine. Now there
was murder in his heart. He rushed Tar¬
zan, and once again the ape-man made
him miss; then Mullargan fell into a
clinch, pinning Tarzan’s right arm and
striking terrific blows above one of the
ape-man’s kidneys, to hurt and weaken
him.
With his free hand Tarzan lifted Mul¬
largan from his feet and threw him
heavily to the ground, falling on top of
him. Steel-thewed fingers sought Mul¬
largan’s throat. He struggled to free him¬
self, but he was helpless. A low growl
came from the throat of the man upon
him. It was the growl of a beast, and it
filled the champion with a terror that was
new to him.
“Help, Joey! Help!” he cried. “The
so-an’-so’s killin’ me.”
Marks was the personification of futil¬
ity. He could only hop about, scream¬
ing: “Get up, you bum; get up and kill
him! ”
Nkima hopped about too, and
screamed; but he hopped and screamed
for a very different reason from that
which animated Marks, for he saw some¬
thing that the three men, their whole at¬
tention centered on the fight, did not see.
He saw a horde of savages coming down
out of the forest on the opposite side of
the gorge.
The Babangos, realizing that the three
men below them were thoroughly en¬
grossed and entirely unaware of their
presence, advanced silently, for they
wished to take them alive and unharmed.
They came swiftly, a hundred sleek war¬
riors, muscled and hard, a hundred splen¬
did refutations of the theory that the
eating of human flesh makes men mangy,
hairless and toothless.
Marks saw them first, and screamed a
warning; but it was too late, for they
were already upon him. By the weight of
their numbers, they overwhelmed the
three men, burying Tarzan and Mullar¬
gan beneath a dozen sleek dark bodies;
but the ape-man rose, shaking them from
him for a moment. Mullargan saw him
raise a warrior above his head and hurl
him into the faces of his fellows, and the
champion was awed by this display of
physical strength so much greater than
his own.
This momentary reversal was brief—
there were too many Babangos even for
Tarzan. Two of them seized him around
the ankles, and three more bore him back¬
ward to the ground; but before they suc¬
ceeded in binding him, he had killed one
with his bare hands.
Mullargan was taken with less diffi¬
culty; Marks with none. The Babangos
bound their hands tightly behind their
backs; and prodding them from behind
with their spears, drove them up the
steep gorge side into the forest.
Little Nkima watched for a moment;
then he fled back across the plain.
T HE gloom of the forest was on them,
depressing further the spirits of the
two Americans. The myriad close-packed
trees, whose interlaced crowns of foliage
shut out the sky and the sun, awed them.
Trees, trees, trees! Trees of all sizes and
heights, some raising their loftiest
branches nearly two hundred feet above
the carpet of close-packed phyrnia, amo-
ma, and dwarf bush that covered the
“So you’re dat Tar-
zan bum,” he said;
then he swung that
lethal right of his
straight for Tar-
zan’s chin. He was
much surprised
when he missed.
ground. Loops and festoons of lianas ran
from tree to tree, or wound like huge
serpents around their boles from base to
loftiest pinnacle. From the highest
branches others hung almost to the
ground, their frayed extremities scarcely
moving in the dead air; and other, slen¬
derer cords hung down in tassels with
open thread work at their ends, the air
roots of the epiphytes.
“Wot you suppose they goin’ to do with
us?” asked Marks. “Hold us for ran¬
som ?”
“Mebbe. I don’ know. How’d they
collect ransom ?”
Marks shook his head. “Then what
are they goin’ to do with us?”
“Why don’t you ask that big bum?”
suggested Mullargan, jerking his head in
the general direction of Tarzan.
“Bum!” Marks spat the word out dis¬
gustedly. “He made a bum outta you,
big boy. I wisht I had a bum like that
back in Noo York. I’d have a real
champeen then. He nearly kayoed you
with the flat of his hand. What a hay¬
maker he packs!”
“Just a lucky punch,” said Mullargan.
“Might happen to anyone.”
“He picks you up like you was a fly¬
weight ; but when he truns you down you
land like a heavyweight, all right. I sup¬
pose ’at was just luck.”
“He aint human. Did you hear him
growl ? Just like a lion or somep’n.”
“I wisht I knew what they was goin’
to do with us,” said Marks.
“Well, they aint agoin’ to kill us. If
they was, they would of done it back
there when they got us. There wouldn’t
be no sense in luggin’ us somewheres else
to kill us.”
“I guess you’re right, at that.”
25
The footpath that the Babangos fol¬
lowed with their captives wound errat¬
ically through the forest. It was scarcely
more than eighteen inches wide, a nar¬
row trough worn deep by the feet of
countless men and beasts through count¬
less years. It led at last to a rude en¬
campment on the banks of a small stream
near its confluence with a larger river.
It was the site of an abandoned village
in a clearing not yet entirely reclaimed
by the jungle.
As the three men were led into the en¬
campment, they were surrounded by yell¬
ing women and children. The women
spat upon them, and the children threw
sticks at them until the warriors drove
them off; then, with ropes about their
necks, they were tied to a small tree.
Marks, exhausted, threw himself up¬
on the ground; Mullargan sat with his
back against the tree; Tarzan remained
standing, his eyes examining every detail
of his surroundings, his mind centered
upon a single subject—escape.
“Cripes,” said Marks. “I’m all in.”
“You aint never used your dogs
enough,” said Mullargan, unsympathetic¬
ally. “You was always keen on me doin’
six miles of road work every day while
you loafed in a automobile.”
“What was that?” suddenly demanded
Marks.
“What’s what?”
“Don’t you hear it—them groans?”
The sound was coming from the direc¬
tion of the stream, which they could not
see because of intervening growth.
“Some smoke’s got a bellyache,” said
Mullargan.
“It sounds awful,” said Marks. “I
wisht I was back in Gawd’s country. You
sure had a hell of a bright idea—cornin’
to this Africa. I wisht I knew what
they was goin’ to do with us.”
Mullargan glanced up at Tarzan. “He
aint worryin’ none,” he said, “and he
ought to know what they’re goin’ to do
with us. He’s a wild man himself.”
They had been speaking in whispers,
but Tarzan had heard what they said.
“You want to know what they’re going
to do to you ?” he asked.
“We sure do,” said Marks,
“They’re going to eat you.”
Marks sat up suddenly. He felt his
throat go dry, and he licked his lips.
“Eat us ?” he croaked. “You’re kiddin’,
Mister; they aint no cannibals no more,
only in movin’ pitchers an’ story-books.”
“No ? You hear that moaning coming
from the river?”
eaten.” ,
“What is it ?” demanded Marks.
“They’re preparing the meat—making
it tender. Those are men or women or
little children that you hear—there are
several of them. Two or three days ago,
perhaps, they broke their arms and legs
in three or four places with clubs; then
they sank them in the river, tying their
heads up to sticks; so they can’t drown
by accident or commit suicide. They’ll
leave them there three or four days; then
they’ll cut them up and cook them.”
Mullargan turned a sickly yellowish
white. Marks rolled over on his side and
was sick. _ Tarzan looked down on them
without pity.
“You are afraid,” said Tarzan. “You
don’t want to suffer. Out on the plain
and in the forest are the zebra and ele¬
phant that you left to suffer, perhaps for
many days.”
“But they’re only animals,” said Mul¬
largan. “We’re human bein’s.”
“You are animals,” said the ape-man.
“You suffer no more than other animals,
when you are hurt. I am glad that the
Babangos are going to make you suf-
The witch-doctor rose and ap¬
proached the two victims. Marks
struggled and cried out: “Save
me, kid! Save me! Don’t let ’em
do this to me!”
fer before they eat you. You are worse
than the Babangos. You had no reason
for hurting the zebra and the elephant.
You could not possibly have eaten all
that you killed*. The Babangos kill only
for food, and they kill only as much as
they can eat. They are better people than
you, who will find pleasure in killing.”
For a long time the three were silent,
each wrapped in his own thoughts. Above
the noises of the encampment rose the
moans from the river. Marks com¬
menced to sob. He was breaking. Mul-
largan was breaking too, but with a dif¬
ferent reaction.
He looked up at Tarzan, who still
stood, impassive, above them. “I been
thinkin’, Mister,” he said, “about what
you was sayin’ about us hurtin’ the ani¬
mals an’ killin’ for pleasure. I aint nev¬
er thought about it that way before. I
wisht I hadn’t done it.”
A LITTLE monkey fled across the hot
plain. He made a detour to avoid
the lumbering truck following in the
wake of the hunters. Shortly thereafter
he took to the trees and swung through
thepi close to the edge of the plain. He
was a terrified little monkey, constantly
on the alert for the many creatures to
which monkey meat is an especial deli¬
cacy. It was sad that such an ardent
nemophilist should be afraid in the for¬
est, but that was because Histah the
spake and Sheeta the panther were also
arboreal. There were also large mon¬
keys with very bad dispositions, which ft
were wise to avoid; so little Nkima trav¬
eled as quietly and unobtrusively as pas¬
sible. It was seldom that he traveled,
or dfd anything else, with such sin¬
gleness of purpose; but today not even
the most luscious caterpillar, the mpst
enticing fruits, or even a nest of eggs
could tempt him to loiter. Little Nkima
was going places, fast. ...
Melton saw the carcasses of zebra
pointing the way the hunters.had gone.
He was filled with anger and disgust, and
he cursed under his breath. When he
came to the edge of the gorge, he saw
the wreck of the automobile lying be¬
neath the body of a bull elephant; but
he saw no sign of the two men. He got
out and went down into the gorge.
M ELTON was an experienced tracker.
He could read a story in a crushed
blade of grass or a broken twig. A swift
survey of the ground surrounding the
wrecked automobile told him a story that
filled him with concern—for himself.
With his rifle cocked, he climbed back up
the side of the gorge toward the truck,
turning his eyes often back toward the
forest on the opposite side. It was with
a sigh of relief that he turned the truck
about and started back across the plain.
“The bounders had it coming to them,”
he thought. “There’s nothing I can do
about it but report it, and by that time
it will be too late.”
That night the Babangos feasted, and
Tarzan learned from snatches of their
Conversation that they were planning to
commence the preparation of him and the
two Americans the following night; but
Tarzan was of no mind to have his arms
and legs broken. He lay down close to
Mullargan.
“Turn on your side,” he whispered. “I
am going to lie with my back tq yours.
I’ll try to untie the thongs on your wrists;
then you can untie mine.”
“Oke,” said Mullargan.
Out ip the forest toward the plain a
lion roared, and the instant reaction of
the Babangos evidenced their fear of the
king of beasts. They replenished their
beast-fires and beat their drums to fright-
en away the marauder. They were not
lion men, these hunters of humans; but
after a while, hearing no more from the
lion, the savages, once again feasting,
dancing, drinking, relaxed their surveil¬
lance ; and Tarzan was able to labor un¬
interruptedly for hours. It was slow
work, for his hands were so bound that
he could use the fingers of but one of
them at a time; but at last one knot gave
to his perseverance. After that it was
easier, and in another half-hour Mullar-
gan’s hands were free. With two hands,
he could work more rapidly; but time
was flying. It was long past midnight.
There were signs that the orgy would
soon be terminated; then, Tarzan knew,
guards would be placed over them. At
last he was free. Marks’ bonds re¬
sponded more easily.
“Crawl on your bellies after me,” Tar¬
zan whispered. “Make no noise.” Mul-
largan’s admission of his regret for the
slaughter of the zebra had determined
Tarzan to give the two men a chance to
escape—that, and the fact that Mullargan
had helped to release him. He felt neither
liking nor responsibility for them. He
did not consider them as fellow-beings,
but as creatures further removed from
him than the wild beasts with which he
had consorted since childhood: those
were his kin and his fellows.
T ARZAN inched across the clearing
toward the forest. Had he been alone,
he would have depended upon his speed
to reach the sanctuary of the trees where
no Babangos could have followed him
along the high-flung pathways that the
apes of Kerchak had taught him to trav¬
erse; but the only chance that the two
behind him had was that of reaching the
forest unobserved.
They had covered scarcely more than
a hundred feet when Marks sneezed. Asth¬
matic, he had reacted to some dust or
pollen that their movement had raised
from the ground. He sneezed, not once
but continuously; and his sneezing was
answered by shouts from the encamp¬
ment.
“Get up and run!” directed Tarzan,
leaping to his feet; and the three raced
for the forest, followed by a horde of
yelling savages.
The Babangos overtook Marks first,
the result of neglecting his road-work;
but they caught Mullargan too, just be¬
fore he reached the forest. They caught
him because he had hesitated momen¬
tarily, motivated by what was possibly
the first heroic urge of his life, to at¬
tempt to rescue Marks. When they were
upon him, and both rescue and escape
were no longer possible, One-punch Mul¬
largan went berserk.
“Come on, you bums! ” he yelled, and
planted his famous right on a black chin.
Others closed in on him and went down in
rapid succession to a series of vicious
rights and lefts. “I’ll learn you,” growled
Mullargan, “to monkey with the Heavy¬
weight Champeen of the World! ” Then
a warrior crept up behind him and struck
him a heavy blow across his head with
the haft of a spear, and One-punch Mul¬
largan went down and out for the first
time in his life.
Tarzan, perched upon the limb of a
tree at the edge of the clearing, had
been an interested spectator, correctly
interpreting Muilargan’s act of heroism.
It was the second admirable trait that he
had seen in either of these tarmangani,
and it moved him to a more active con¬
templation of their impending fate.
Death meant nothing to him, unless it
was the death of a friend, for death is a
commonplace of the jungle; and his, the
psychology of the wild beast, which, walk¬
ing always with death, is not greatly im¬
pressed by it.
But self-sacrificing heroism is not a
common characteristic of wild beasts. It
belongs almost exclusively to man, mark¬
ing the more courageous among them. It
was an attribute that Tarzan could under¬
stand and admire. It formed a bond be¬
tween these two most dissimilar men,
raising Mullargan in Tarzan’s estimation
above the position held by the Babangos,
whom he looked upon as natural enemies.
Formerly, Mullargan had ranked below
the Babangos, below Ungo the jackal, be¬
low Dango the hyena.
Tarzan still felt no responsibility for
these men, whom he had been about to
abandon to their fate; but he considered
the idea of aiding them, perhaps as much
to confound and annoy the Babangos as
to succor Mullargan and Marks.
O NCE again Nkima crossed the plain,
this time upon the broad, brown
shoulder of Muviro, chief of the white-
plumed Waziri. Once again he chattered
and scolded, and his heart was as the
heart of Numa the lion. From the shoul¬
der of Muviro, as from the shoulder of
Tarzan, Nkima could tell the world to go
to hell; and did.
From his slow-moving lorry, Melton
saw, in the distance, what appeared to
be a large party of men approaching.
He stopped the lorry and reached for his
binoculars.
When he had focused them on the ob¬
ject of his interest, he whistled.
“I hope they’re friendly,” he thought.
One of his boys had told him that the
28
Babangos were raiding somewhere in this
territory, and the evidence he had seen
around the wrecked automobile seemed
to substantiate the rumor. He saw that
the boy beside him had his rifle in readi¬
ness, and drove on again.
When they were closer, he saw that
the party consisted of some hundred
white-plumed warriors. They had altered
their course so as to intercept him. He
thought of speeding up the truck and run¬
ning through them. The situation looked
bad to him, for this was evidently a war
party. He called to the boys on top o
the load to get out the extra rifles and t
commence firing if he gave the word.
“Do not fire at them, Bwana,” said on
of the boys; “they would kill us all if yoi
did. They are very great warriors.”
“Who are they?” asked Melton.
“The Waziris. They will not harm us.
It was Muviro who stepped into th
path of the truck and held up his hanc
Melton stopped.
“Where have you come from?” aske
the Waziri chief.
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
Melton told him of the gorge and what
he had found in its bottom.
“You saw no other white men than
your two friends ?” asked Muviro.
“Yesterday, I saw a white man who
called himself Tarzan.”
“Was he with the others when they
were captured ?”
“I do not know.”
“Follow us,” said Muviro, “and camp
at the edge of the forest. If your friends
are alive, we will bring them back.”
N KIMA’S actions had told Muviro that
Tarzan was in trouble, and this new
evidence suggested that he might have
been killed or captured by the same tribe
that had surprised the other men.
Melton watched the Waziri swing away
at a rapid trot that would eat up the
miles rapidly; then he started his motor
and followed. . . .
At the cannibal encampment, the Bab-
angos, sleeping off the effects of their
orgy, were not astir until nearly noon.
They were in an ugly mood. They had
lost one victim, and many of them were
nursing sore jaws and broken noses as a
result of their encounter with One-punch
Mullargan.
The white men were not in much bet¬
ter shape: Mullargan’s head ached, while
Marks ached all over; and every time he
thought of what lay in store for him be¬
fore they would kill him, he felt faint.
“They breaks our arms and legs in
four places,” he mumbled, “an’ then they
soaks us in the drink for three days to
make us tender. The dirty bums!”
“Shut up!” snapped Mullargan. “I
been tryin’ to forget it.”
Tarzan, knowing that the Waziri were
not far behind him, returned to the edge
of the plain to look for them. Alone, and
in broad daylight, he knew that not even
he could hope to rescue the Americans
from the camp of the Babangos. All day
‘he loitered at the edge of the plain; and
then, there being no sign of the Waziri,
he swung back through the trees toward
the cannibal encampment as the brief
equatorial twilight ushered in the im¬
penetrable darkness of the forest night.
He approached the camp from a new
direction, coming down the little stream
in which the remaining victims were still
submerged. Above the camp, his nostrils
caught the scent of Numa the lion and
Sabor the lioness; and presently he made
out their dim forms below him. They
were slinking silently toward the scent
of human flesh, and they were ravenously
hungry. The ape-man knew this, for the
scent of an empty lion is quite different
from that of one with a full belly. Every
wild beast knows this; so that it is far
from unusual to see lions that have re¬
cently fed pass through a herd of graz¬
ing herbivores without eliciting more
than casual attention.
The silence and hunger of these two
stalking lions boded ill for their intended
prey.
A dozen warriors approached Mullar¬
gan and Marks. They cut their bonds
and jerked the two men roughly to their
feet; then they dragged them to the
center of the camp, where the chief and
the witch-doctor sat beneath a large tree.
Warriors stood in a semi-circle facing the
chief, and behind them were the women
and children.
The two Americans were tripped and
thrown to the ground upon their backs;
and there they were spread-eagled, two
warriors pinioning each arm and leg.
From the foliage of the tree above, an al¬
most naked white man looked down up¬
on the scene. He was weighing in his
mind the chances of effecting a rescue,
but he had no intention of sacrificing him¬
self uselessly for these two. Beyond the
beast-fires two pairs of yellow-green un¬
blinking eyes watched. The tips of two
sinuous tails weaved to and fro. A piti¬
ful moan came from the stream near by;
and the lioness turned her eyes in that
direction, but the great black-maned male
continued to glare at the throng within
the encampment.
The witch-doctor rose and approached
the two victims. In one hand he carried
a zebra’s tail, to which feathers were at¬
tached in the other a heavy club. Marks
saw him and commenced to whimper.
He struggled and cried out:
“Save me, kid! Save me! Don’t let
’em do this to me!”
M ULLARGAN muttered a half-re-
membered prayer. The witch-doctor
began to dance around them, waving the
zebra’s tail over them and mumbling his
ritualistic mumbo-jumbo. Suddenly he
leaped in close to Mullargan and swung
his heavy club above the pinioned man;
then Mullargan, Heavyweight Champion
of the World, tore loose from the grasp of
the warriors and leaped to his feet. With
all the power of his muscles and the
weight of his body, he drove such a blow
to the chin of the witch-doctor as he had
never delivered in any ring; and the
witch-doctor went down and out with a
30
TARZAN AND THfi CHAMPION
broken jaw. A shout of savage rage went
up from the assembled warriors, and a
moment later Mullargan was submerged
by numbers.
T HE lioness approached the edge of the
stream and stretched a taloned paw
toward the head of one of the Babangos’
pitiful victims, a woman. The poor crea¬
ture screamed in terror, and the lioness
growled horribly and struck. The Bab¬
angos, terrified, turned their eyes in the
direction of the sounds; and then the lion
charged straight for them, his thunderous
roar shaking the ground. The savages
turned and fled, leaving their two vic¬
tims and the witch-doctor in the path of
the carnivore.
It all happened so quickly that the lion
was above Mullargan before he could gain
his feet. For a moment the great beast
stood glaring down at the prostrate man,
who lay paralyzed with fright, staring
back into those terrifying eyes. He
smelled the fetid breath and saw the yel¬
low fangs and the drooling jowls, and he
saw something else—something that filled
him with wonder and amazement—as
Tarzan launched himself from the tree
full upon the back of the great cat.
Mullargan leaped to his feet then and
backed away, but was held by fascinated
horror as he waited for the lion to kill
the man. Marks scrambled up and tried
to climb the tree, clawing at the great
bole in a frenzy of terror. The lioness
had dragged the woman from the stream
and was carrying her off into the for¬
est, her agonized screams rising above
all other sounds.
Mullargan wished to run away, but he
could not. He stood fixed to the ground,
watching the incredible. Tarzan’s legs
were locked around the small of the lion’s
body, his steel-thewed arms encircling
the black-maned neck. The lion reared
upon his hind feet, striking futilely at
the man-thing upon his back; and min¬
gled with his roaring and his growling
were the growls of the man. It was the
latter which froze Mullargan’s blood.
He saw the lion throw himself to the
ground and roll over upon the man in a
frantic effort to dislodge him, but when
he came to his feet again the man was
still there. One-punch Mullargan had
witnessed many a battle that had brought
howls of approval for the strength or
courage of the contestants, but never had
he seen such strength and courage as were
being displayed by this almost naked
man in hand-to-hand battle with a lion.
The endurance of a lion is in no meas¬
ure proportional to its strength, and pres¬
ently the great cat commenced to tire.
For a moment it stood squarely upon all
four feet, panting; and in that first mo¬
ment of opportunity Tarzan released his
hold with one hand and drew his hunt¬
ing-knife from its scabbard. At the move¬
ment, the lion wheeled and sought to seize
his antagonist. The knife flashed in the
firelight and the long blade sank deep be¬
hind the tawny shoulder. Voicing a
hideous roar, the beast reared and leaped;
and again the blade was driven home. In
a paroxysm of pain and rage, the great
cat leaped high into the air. Again the
blade was buried in its side. Three times
the point had reached the lion’s heart;
and at last it rolled over on its side,
quivered convulsively and lay still.
Tarzan sprang erect and placed a foot
upon the carcass of his kill, and raising
his face to the heavens voiced the hide¬
ous victory cry of the bull ape. Marks’
knees gave beneath him, and he sat down
suddenly. Mullargan felt the hairs on
his scalp rise. The Babangos, who had
run into the forest to escape the lion, kept
on running to escape the nameless horror
of the weird cry.
“Come! ” commanded Tarzan; and led
the two men toward the plain—away
from captivity and death and the canni¬
bal Babangos.
■\ TEXT day, Marks and Mullargan were
1X| in camp with Melton. Tarzan and
the Waziri were preparing to leave in
pursuit of the Babangos, to punish them
and drive them from the country.
Before the ape-man left, he confronted
the two Americans.
“Get out of Africa,” he commanded,
“and never come back.”
“Never’s too damn’ soon for me,” said
Mullargan.
“Listen, Mister,” said Marks. “I’ll
guarantee you one hundred G. if you’ll
come back to Noo York an’ fight for
me.”
Tarzan turned and walked away, join-
the Waziri, who were already on the
march. Nkima sat upon his shoulder and
called the tarmangani vile names.
Marks spread his hands, palms up.
“Can you beat it, kid?” he demanded.
“He turns down one hundred G. cold!
But it’s a good thing for you he did—
he’d have taken that champeenship away
from you in one round.”
“Who ?” demanded One-punch Mullar¬
gan. “Dat bum?”
c J4^arlock Cjfinn
The Finns, as witness this fine story, are fey, warlock — pos¬
sessed of almost supernatural gifts. Certainly they have what it
takes—and then some. They themselves have a word for it: sisu.
According to Nurmi, as quoted by Hudson Strode in the New
York Times: “Sisu is patience and strong will without passion;
it comes to men miraculously in times of stress
By H. Bedford-Jones
K URT AKONEN flushed angri¬
ly as roars of laughter swept up
| among the white birch trees.
I Captain Vikoski, who was wax¬
ing his skis, looked up with a grin on his
wizened, wrinkled features.
“Brother Kurt, we know America is a
wonderful place, but you can’t expect us
to believe downright lies, if you’ll par¬
don the word. We don’t wish to be of¬
fensive. You’ve come from America to
aid us, your own people by blood; we
respect you. And we Finns like a joke—
but it must be told as a joke, brother, not
as sober truth!”
“Damn it, it is the truth! ” blurted out
Kurt Akonen. “I tell you, I worked on
that assembly-line myself! ”
“And you saw a piece of steel start at
one end, and finish at the other end a per¬
fect motor-car?” And Captain Vikoski
grinned anew. “Now I’ll tell one, broth¬
er. Last year, before the war started,
a whale was washed up on the beach; an
old whale, dead. When we cut him up,
what do you think we found, grown into
his jawbone ? A long extra piece of bone,
put there long ago, carved with Hebrew
characters! The bishop said they made
the word Jonah. Therefore, this was the
whale that had swallowed Jonah the
prophet, ages back.”
32
“Yes! That’s true I ” went up a sober
murmur, brown faces nodding gravely,
pipes all puffing. Kurt looked around.
He knew these men from the backwoods,
from the desolate empty tundras along
the Arctic coast, not educated city men;
to them, his tales of marvels in the United
States were hard of credence. But this
whale story—
Suddenly the grave, wrinkled faces
broke in a glint, Kurt saw the thin lips
twitch, and he himself was the first to
laugh aloud, as the roar went up. Cap¬
tain Vikoski clapped an arm about his
shoulders.
“Brother, each man has his own value!
You can handle explosives; that is good.
That’s why we’re here, with the battery
and wire; no one else here knows it. But
we know skis, we know the forest and the
border trails into Russia, we know rifles
and we have a machine-gun. Good!
What’s more,” and the Captain winked
elaborately, “all the ghosts and the an¬
cient spells of Finland are working for
us and helping us! Everybody knows a
Finn is a wizard. Did not the English
Kipling—if I am not mistaken—refer to
a Warlock Finn?”
“That’s what they say, anyhow,” said
Kurt Akonen. “And now more than ever,
since we’re beating off the Russ I ”
“Ah! But look!” Captain Vikoski,
the shrewd old fox, laid a finger along his
nose. “How do we beat them? Like
Illustrated by
Grattan Condon
this. Forty men here, good men, hard
men. We go into Russia, and we die
there, after we do our job. So what?
We kill many Russians, but forty Finns
are dead. Plenty more Russians, but no
more Finns. Help is coming, sure, but
not enough. These Russians coming up
to Murmansk are crack troops, the very
best.”
“So much the better if we smash
them!” cried Kurt, and there was a hum
of approval. They all liked this Ameri¬
can who had returned to the land of his
fathers. Kurt felt this and warmed to it.
These simple men were his own kind.
He himself, brought up in America,
graduating from the assembly-line to the
sales force, hard, severe, brilliant of prom¬
ise, then going on as a ski champion and
trainer—finally to end all the old life and
come back here to Finland, with a thou¬
sand more of his countrymen. And here,
with his intelligence and hard rugged
frame and expert skis, he was valuable:
Second in command to Vikoski, now—
Vikoski of the suicide troops.
A distant horn was heard, afar in the
night-dark forest. Vikoski looked up.
“Ready, everyone? The orders are
coming. When we break camp, you know
what to expect. The extra men will take
back the horses and sleds.”
“What do you think?” asked Vikoski. “I think he’s lying,” said Akonen.
A stir spread through the birches.
Skis, packs and guns were made ready;
everything was perfectly ordered. Here
Kurt had been of value, too. His eyes
glittered proudly at the men around him:
ready for any emergency, supplied against
everything—except failure.
Furs were ready. White parkas were
ready, to make the men invisible against
the snow.
For it was bitter sub-zero weather, the
trees crackling in the intense frost. Now
the horn sounded again, closer. Pres¬
ently a voice rose. Snow crackled under
skis, and a man came, staggering, ex¬
hausted, collapsing. Captain Vikoski
took the dispatch from him, and every¬
one gathered around.
There were no secrets here, and scant
discipline; all were brothers.
“An entire Russian division, the 93rd,
one of their crack divisions is en route
to Murmansk,” said Captain Vikoski.
“Our job is to destroy them.”
Someone laughed. “Forty men destroy
eighteen thousand?”
“Certainly.” Vikoski’s wedge-shaped
features beamed. “Cut the railroad,
that’s all; make a thorough job of it.
That division is then cut off in the north
and our troops can chop them up at will.
Specifically, we must cut the railroad
before an armored train goes north to¬
morrow evening. That train must be
stopped. It contains artillery and all am¬
munition for the 93rd, and their chief
officers and staff. We must give our¬
selves, brethren, in order that a division
of the enemy may perish.”
“No use talking like an orator,”
growled someone. “Let’s go and do it.”
A burst of laughter rang up. Vikoski
grinned and blew his whistle, and orders
flew; Vikoski leading, the forty moved
out to destroy the eighteen thousand.
T was like nothing Kurt Akonen had
ever felt or known. Ahead was a fifty-
odd-mile march through darkness, deso¬
lation, enemy territory; at the end of this
march, deep in old Russia, death was
waiting. Yet these men sang, talked of
the past and the future, glinted with the
joyous Finnish spirit, hard and bright as
Finnish nickel from the northern mines.
They joked and laughed as their skis
streaked the snow; not one doubted their
ability to fulfill the orders. Some, per¬
haps, would survive to get back home
again—not many. Yet the burning cu¬
riosity was how the American would man¬
age his own work. Here in the Arctic
woods, experts with explosives were few;
those of the company who knew, had
been killed off. There were loads of gel¬
ignite and dynamite and electrical equip¬
ment—sheer luxury, since caps and fuses
would do, yet carried for a definite rea¬
son. And Kurt Akonen to handle all.
The grim, hard pace was very different
from the fancy skiing and Immelmans
of Sun Valley or the Adirondacks. Kurt
buckled down to the slogging march;
fifty miles of this, with scarcely any
down grades, was a killing business.
“Snow is ahead,” said a voice; and Vi¬
koski swung in beside him. “There were
sundogs yesterday. Snow will be fine for
us; no Soviet planes! A dozen of our
men will fall out before we’re halfway
there; however, they’ll catch up later.”
“Fallout? Why?”
“They have some of those fancy Swed¬
ish skis, donated with other supplies by
the Swedes. Good, but not made for this
heavy cross-country work. You’ll see!
By morning, our men will curse the
Swedes, and rest.”
“I may hold you up myself,” Kurt
said honestly. “Those practice marches
showed that I’m far from being your
equal.”
The Captain laughed softly, as though
amused by this.
“Oh, no! The ghosts of the dead are
helping you, brother. We fight against
destruction; we are helped.”
Kurt grunted. “I don’t take any stock
in all that nonsense, Captain. I’ve heard
the talk about warlock Finns all my life
and it doesn’t register with me. Doesn’t
take any wizardry to foretell snow and
wind tomorrow; anyone with half an eye
for sky and air and the feel of things—
could tell that much. I’m a good Chris¬
tian, Vikoski, so keep all your occult
stuff to yourself and pray that the caps
and fuses remain dry.”
“Oh, we’re all good Christians, broth¬
er! Wait and see. Maybe we perish,
maybe Finland will perish; only for a
while. This is one of three magic coun¬
tries in Europe where the spells of an¬
cient ages lie sleeping. Hungary is one,
and Provence is the third. Maybe the
Russians will break us and go on, maybe
not. You will be helped, because you
are a Finn and have come home from
America to fight for Finland.”
“Another version of the gods help those
who help themselves, eh ?” grunted Kurt.
Captain Vikoski laughed. “Perhaps,
perhaps! Now we must quicken pace
and send the scouts far ahead. No more
loafing.”
_ “Loafing! ” thought Kurt. “He’s crazy,
like all Finns. I was crazy myself, to
give up a good job at home and come
back to Finland! ”
Y ET it was remarkable how good he
felt, despite the increasing fatigue; a
feeling from inside, a sensation of spirit¬
ual exhilaration. The entire column felt
the same way—and Akonen wondered
at these men, knowing how some of them
had lost sons or brethren or whole fam¬
ilies in the first Russian advance. They
had accomplished, and were accomplish¬
ing, feats of incredible endurance, shat¬
tering the long Russian line from south to
north, fighting day and night with super¬
human energy; and if they died, at least
they had something worth dying for.
This was more than the serried armies
of Russia could say.
Kurt Akonen had come to fight for the
land of his fathers. Others poured in by
35
the thousands to fight for liberty. The
world was sending aid—and Kurt knew
now how desperately useless it all was.
He knew this, since coming to Finnish
soil; he had learned it here. Help could
not come in time. Most of it could not
get here at all, due to closed frontiers.
S OME of them spoke of this when
the brief halt came. Kurt joined a
knot of them; they ate, and drank hot
coffee, and smoked, while scouts were
being sent well ahead and wearied mus¬
cles were given a breathing-spell.
“We’ll do what we can,” said one, a
rim man who had lost two sons and a
rother in the first fighting before Ivalo.
“Those who are dead, still fight on; we’ll
do the same. One free fighter is worth
a thousand slaves, my brothers.”
Eloquence, thought Kurt Akonen. All
very well, and quite sincere; none the
less, fine words left him cold. He was
ready to do his bit, and was doing it, but
would far sooner have been back home
with his wife and child. He admitted it
freely when someone asked him.
“Sure. Why not? But there’s my
old man. There’s my wife, and the kid.
All fed up on Finland stuff—stories, mu¬
sic, so on. My old man was in the revo¬
lution against Russia. So what? I’ve
got to come over and do my bit, or they’ll
think I’m a hell of a Finn! And when
you come right down to brass tacks,
there’s my self-respect, too.”
The others grinned at this, and Cap¬
tain Vikoski slapped him on the back.
“Truth sounds good, brother. You’ll
see! You’ll be helped; the gods will
make use of you—”
“Never mind that nonsense,” broke in
Akonen, irritated. “It’s all right up to
a certain point; then it gets absurd. For¬
get it! Just what’s your program?”
“Keep marching. Halt tomorrow noon;
we’ll be within striking distance of the
railroad, at the trestle near the Bogun
lake. That’s so far from the border that
they’ll expect no enemy; none the less,
it will be guarded. We must wait, hid¬
den. Evening will not be long distant.
Then we strike. That trestle is no more
than a bridge across the swamp; if we
blow out the supports upholding it, the
damage will be severe. Merely burning
it would effect little. But it will be hard
to replace these supports.”
“Fine,” agreed Akonen. “Dynamite
strikes downward! And after it’s done ?”
Vikoski grinned. “Separate, and make
for the border—those who can! ”
The whistle blew; they were up and
off again, striking now through track¬
less timberlands. Past the frontier, in
Russia, said someone, but with a long
way to go. During the previous day a
Finn pursuit plane had reconnoitered the
terrain, sketchily; Vikoski was forced to
depend upon this very scanty informa¬
tion, but he and his men knew the coun¬
try itself like a book, and the railroad line
could be scouted when the time came.
A fitful flare of lights played in the
north; not many nor strongly, for clouds
were massed along the sky, and these
lights were little more than reflections.
Enough to let Kurt Akonen watch for tfie
trees and brush, however. The party had
shrunk; he counted no more than a score
of men now. Half had gone on, far on
and to the flanks, as vanguard—the har¬
diest men, these, who could stand the ex¬
tra stress and speed of scouting.
IKOSKI came up beside the Amer¬
ican recruit.
“Now tell me,” he said, “about that
gelignite, in case anything happens to
you. We did have some fellows from the
mines, who were used to explosives, but
they didn’t return last trip. Of course,
we can set a cap and a fuse, if it comes
to that; but it’ll be much better if we
use this electrical equipment of yours.
That battery’s heavy; it must be good! ”
They were like children, thought
Akonen, and wondered at the man. Such
marvels in the forest, in the wilderness,
such incredible rifle-shots, yet in some
ways so simple! In laying ground mines,
in using artillery, in handling that Swed¬
ish mechanical masterpiece, the Bofurs
anti-aircraft gun, these Finns had an un¬
canny skill. Yet among them were to
be found men like Vikoski, from the far
back woods or the tundras or the Arctic
shores, who were like men from some
earlier generation.
Akonen told of the simple electrical
equipment and detonators, for use with
either the gelignite or the dynamite—
really varying names for the same ex¬
plosive. The wires and battery formed
a weighty and actually needless part
of the loads, but had been brought along
for just one reason. Vikoski and his men,
hearing Kurt Akonen’s stories, wanted
with all their hearts to see a switch
thrown and a Russian troop-train blown
up; they would even risk almost certain
death for such a sight.
“We’ve always touched off a fuse and
run,” said the Captain. “No fun in that
—a quick raid, a few shots, the track
blown up here and there, and a fast get¬
away. No! This time we’ll pick our
place and time, eh? There’ll be shoot¬
ing enough, after the train is blown up! ”
Children—wanted to see a train blown
up! Kurt Akonen made no protest, how¬
ever. He wanted to see it, too. He had
something of the same strain in himself.
And he knew that if these men were as
children, they could also be terrible in
the hour of battle. . . .
Hour after hour, unrelenting, merci¬
less, the pace was kept up. The bitter
wind had died; the cold was somewhere
around thirty below. Akonen moved on
mechanically, sustained by sheer will.
He saw that Vikoski’s prediction had
come true; many of the men, equipped
with those Swedish sporting skis, had
fallen out. Then sounded the whistle,
and the Captain’s welcome words:
“Fall out. One-hour halt.”
Kurt dropped where he stood, once his
skis were off. Before he closed his eyes,
it seemed, Vikoski was shaking him
awake, stifling his protests with eager
voice.
“The hour’s up, brother; something’s
happened. We need you. A prisoner is
here. His Russian is very bad; he’s an
American like you. We may have to
shoot him and go on, unless you can
talk with him. Here, drink this coffee.”
K URT AKONEN sat up, swigged the
hot drink, ate the cheese and bread,
and stared at the group ten feet away. A
little fire had been built, lighting them
clearly. The prisoner had been found on
skis, claiming to be a Russian deserter;
the scouts had brought him in.
More likely a spy, affirmed Vikoski,
heading for the frontier and Finland. He
wore no uniform, but heavy furs. He
had money, a lot of money, Finnish and
English; an American passport, and a
flashlight. It was one of those heavy
French flashlights that needs no batter¬
ies but generates its own power. He was
quite unarmed.
“If a deserter, how did he get these
clothes and money ?” Vikoski demanded,
simplicity itself. “You talk to him.”
Akonen joined the group, took a twig
from the fire, and held it over his pipe-
bo\yl. The glow struck the harsh, lean
curves of his face alight. The prisoner’s
voice exclaimed:
“Kurt! Kurt Akonen, or I’m a Dutch¬
man ! Remember me, Kurt ?”
Akonen stared and shook his head.
The voice was vaguely familiar; the
bearded face was not, nor the bold, bulg¬
ing black eyes. The man laughed and
spoke again.
“You can’t help but remember me!
I was next you on the assembly-line for
three months. Pete Babenks, remember ?
I lent you a five-spot, that time your kid
was sick, just before I went over to the
pressed-steel plant.”
“Oh! I got you now, sure,” said Kurt.
He regarded Babenks stolidly, unsmiling
and thoughtful. The man had been a
union organizer, or something. Intelli¬
gent, able, bold, unscrupulous, a trouble¬
maker. A good workman to be rid of,
always talking revolution.
“Think of it—you and me, both from
Detroit, meeting up like this! ” exclaimed
Babenks eagerly.
“I am,” said Kurt Akonen, and puffed
his pipe alight.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell ’em I’m
okay? Come on, speak up for me!”
“You speak,” replied Akonen, without
emotion. The circle of eyes was watch¬
ing him. Upon him was the responsibil-
37
ity of life or death for this prisoner.
“That was two years ago when I knew
you. Now talk fast or you’ll get shot.
And tell the truth.”
“I got nothing to hide, sure! And
gosh, it’s good to hear real talk again!
I don’t sling the Russian so good,” Ba-
benks said fervently. “I come over here
last May, to manage a tractor and tank
factory. Things sort of went sour. Then
I couldn’t send any money home—I’d left
the family in Detroit, see? Then I
couldn’t get out o’ Russia myself, even
with my American passport. At last this
war showed up and they popped me into
the army as an officer of the tank-repair
corps.
“I’ve been all ready to skip out,” Ba-
benks went on earnestly. “Got clothes
and cash together. Then came the chance,
when our train broke down. I grabbed
my money and clothes and beat it for
the frontier. I stole these skis from the
bridge guards, where we broke down.”
“Yeah ? I tried to pay back that five-
spot but couldn’t get your address,” said
Kurt Akonen.
“Oh, hell! Forget it, Kurt. I got
plenty in my roll here; take a hundred
more and enjoy life. All I want is to
reach the frontier and get out o’ Russian
reach, see?”
K URT AKONEN, puffing at his pipe,
translated the story briefly.
“And what do you think of it ?” asked
Vikoski.
“I think he’s lying,” said Akonen.
“Why?”
“Just a hunch, Captain. And he tried
to bribe me with some of his money.
Back in America, he was a Soviet agent.
Maybe he still is. I think he’s a liar.”
“Maybe. He’s not the first to get fed
up and quit,” said Vikoski. “No use
shooting him if he’s really a deserter;
use him, instead. What kind of boots
is he wearing ?”
The boots of Babenks were brushed
clear of snow. Russian army boots. Vi¬
koski thought it substantiated the man’s
story. Kurt shrugged and was not sure.
“Ask where his train broke down,” de¬
manded Vikoski, frowning indecisively.
“Near some frozen swamps or lakes,”
Babenks replied. He was stowing away
his money and his heavy flashlight again;
they had been returned to him. “I don’t
remember the name. There was a long
bridge, and an emergency landing-field
for planes.”
“Ha! A trestle!” cried out Vikoski.
“Our same one, brother! Ask him I ”
Babenks shook his head, when Kurt
Akonen translated the word.
“Not what we’d call a trestle at home,
Kurt. Not much! Just a series of
bridges, like, over swamps. There are
guards there, too. And the planes can
land. You know, every train has an es¬
cort that flies ahead, and also armored
cars, because the Finns have raided the
line so often. And they’ve got relays of
machine-guns, now—”
38
The forty moved out to destroy the eighteen thousand.
Kurt Akonen swung toward Captain
Vikoski with a swift burst of words,
translating what Babenks had just said
and then going on rapidly:
“Captain, I still think the man’s ly¬
ing; I think he was heading into Fin¬
land on a spy’s errand, perhaps on sabo¬
tage. The fact that he’s not a Russian
would help him tremendously, of course.
But right now, he can help us! Evident¬
ly they’ve got this trestle or series of
bridges heavily guarded. This Babenks
knows every detail. He knows the spot.
The troops or officers there would know
him. If we take him along—”
“Ha! You are an angel!” Vikoski
caught Akonen in both arms, embraced
him wildly, swung on the prisoner and
aimed hand and finger at him. “You!
Be shot here, or go with us and help us
and prove your story! Choose!”
“What’s he yammering out?” de¬
manded Babenks, staring at the wedge-
shaped face of the Finn, and the point¬
ing finger. Kurt explained. Babenks
hesitated; then his teeth gleamed in a
wide grin, and he caught Vikoski’s ex¬
tended hand, then seized Akonen’s fist.
“Shake, shake all around!” said he
heartily. “You bet! I’ll be tickled pink
to get in a crack at those Russkies my
own self I It’s a go, you bet! ”
Five minutes later the whistle blew
and they were on their way. Vikoski,
with avid curiosity, wanted all details of
that spot on the railroad; Babenks
talked readily, gladly. Akonen trans¬
lated. The three of them kept together.
The information was invaluable; details
of the Soviet flights along the line and
over the adjacent forests, searching for
raiders, and details of the trains them¬
selves, and the forces moving up to Mur¬
mansk for the new offensive against the
Finns in the north.
S TILL, Kurt Akonen doubted. True
he gradually warmed to the man. It
was good, after all, to see someone from
home; and, laughing, he made Babenks
confirm his tale of a piece of steel at one
end of the belt which became an automo¬
bile at the finish. Babenks was cordial,
intimate, confidential with all sorts of
information. Without his account of
Soviet precautions, the raid must have
failed dismally. Now it would succeed
beyond all expectations.
Toward dawn, one of the scouts who
had originally picked up Babenks joined
the party. All was well, snow was im¬
minent, the day would be gray and
gloomy. Akonen talked with the scout
and probed deeply. Apparently Pete
Babenks had told the truth. His ski-
tracks had come from the railroad line,
approximately from the point he had said,
alone. There was no earthly reason to
doubt him, and certainly he could not
have expected to run into any Finn raid¬
ers. His information was a godsend to
them.
And yet—Kurt Akonen doubted. There
was a daybreak halt, for food and to*
39
bacco and hot drinks. Akonen joined
Babenks and Captain Vikoski; and Ba¬
benks, who was weary enough by this
time, jerked his head toward the officer.
“Tell him to watch out for planes. Be¬
fore any snowstorm, now, they’re search¬
ing the forests widely—not just along the
railroad, but over toward the border, this
way. Using a big flight of planes on it,
to clear out any raiders.”
This was valuable news, and Vikoski
sent word on to the scouts. As they
talked, there was no point in keeping the
plans from Babenks; when he learned
that they meant to attack the line this
coming night, he dissented vigorously.
“Listen, Kurt, beat that notion out of
his head! That’s what the Russkies
want. Your boys did that last time, and
now they’ll catch hell. Any night-attack
brings out some specially equipped planes
with flares and gas-bombs; if the gas
doesn’t get you, the machine-guns will.”
Captain Vikoski thought this over,
then nodded vigorously and grinned.
“Tell him we believe him, Akonen, and
say no more. No use letting him know
too much. He said the armored train
we’re after will be along late this after¬
noon. Good! Shall we let this fellow
go or take him along? Can’t spare any
men to go back with him.”
“Take him along,” said Kurt Akonen
harshly. “I’m the one responsible; if he’s
lied to us, shoot him! Otherwise he can
get away, if and as we get away.”
Pete Babenks accepted his situation
without protest. On skis, he was su¬
perb ; he had been a skier from boyhood,
he said. His stalwart, athletic figure held
up well, too. Kurt Akonen to whom each
hour was now an agony, envied him that
powerful body of steel.
The man’s warnings bore fruit. Twice,
before the snow began to sift down stead¬
ily, planes appeared circling close over
the valleys and forests. The orders were
imperative, and were obeyed instantly;
stop, scatter, remain immobile! The
white parkas showed nothing to the eyes
above. Snow over the skis hid them.
Provided there was no movement, any
scattered group would remain unseen by
the searching planes; and so, indeed, it
proved.
Snow began to sift down. There was
little wind; presently the air was filled
with snow. They would be working to
clear the railroad track, said Pete Ba¬
benks; crews and snow-plows from Mur¬
mansk, the base at Khem, and other
points would be out. The line must be
kept open at all costs.
N O delay now. The stragglers had
caught up; each man was accounted
for. The scouts began to be overtaken.
All clear ahead. The dozen men in the
lead would pick a spot for the camp and
send back word. It became a dogged,
furious slogging, with all hands close to
exhaustion, yet carried on by a wild ex¬
altation to superhuman effort. The brief
hours of daylight were gloomed by clouds
and snow; only the watches told when
noon approached. A scout awaited them.
All clear. A hollow, barely half a mile
from the trestle, as Vikoski persisted in
calling it, had been located. Good cov¬
er, too, in case the snow ceased.
To Kurt Akonen, that last hour was
sheer torture. He was unaware of any¬
thing around him; he set his will-power
and held to the task. Iron-hard as he
was, these Finns were even harder. At
the end he was staggering blindly, and
when the word came, he just dropped.
But he had won through, pack and all!
He wakened to tingling effort. No
fires, of course; somewhere, over a secure-
ly hidden fire, tea had been brewed. He
was being rubbed, aching muscles flexed;
man by man, the same treatment was
handed out. Then an hour of delicious
sleep.
Then Vikoski wakened him to action.
“Come on,” said the Finn, his wedge-
shaped face aglow. “You and I, brother 1
Let the others sleep.”
G UARDS were on watch; the others
. slept. Babenks snored lustily.
Kurt and the captain donned skis and
set forth, snow still falling. Through
trees, on to a vantage-point; they settled
down, side by side, binoculars out. And
there was the goal ahead. Kurt thrilled
to the sight of it, and his weariness de¬
parted.
The railroad line had been cleared; as
they watched, a snow-plow came along,
keeping it clear, and passed. To the left,
the snow covered all sign of marsh or
lake or ice; half a dozen piers supported
the long bridges. Akonen scanned them
closely. He could see two widely sep¬
arated huts or sheds, snow-covered, spout¬
ing smoke from fires within.
“No guards,” he commented. “Shift¬
less soldiering, Vikoski! I’m game to try
it.”
“No hurry,” said the Finn, and
chuckled. “There’s a plane, to the right.”
So Babenks had said. The plane was
there, covered by tarpaulins, on an ex¬
panse of smooth, wind-swept snow; far¬
ther to the right, a hundred yards from
the plane, was another shed or barracks
whence smoke streamed up; not a guard,
not a gun, in sight.
“They may be on guard inside, watch¬
ing,” said Vikoski. “Any guns are cer¬
tainly inside. Wait an hour; then it will
be growing dark. That armored train
will certainly be late, too; all Russian
trains are late. Ha! Look! Down flat—
careful!”
A plane was roaring through the snow-
filled air. Behind sounded the far whis¬
tle of a locomotive. The plane circled
over the bridge, headed back; the train
was coming on. The huts disgorged Rus¬
sian soldiers who stood about, waiting.
The train came along from the south,
and a breath of relief escaped Vikoski.
“Not the train we expect; another.”
A troop-train, this one, swaying and
rumbling, coaches crammed with men,
white with snow, everything closed. It
rattled over the bridges and was gone,
on the long eastward curve, and was lost
in the falling snow. The plane roared
back, close to earth, then turned and went
on anew after the train.
“Keeping good watch, eh?” Vikoski
sat up. The soldiers were back in their
huts again. “Now to plan. First, can
you use the electric battery?”
“Yes. Not for all those spans—we’ve
not enough wire. For two of them, per¬
haps. Say, those two central ones; we
can hide between them and set off the
dynamite for both. On the other piers,
we’ll have to use fuses. But I think we
can set the charges for those two piers,
unperceived, unless they send out sen¬
tries.”
“All right,” said Vikoski. “Then do
it. If you’re discovered, we’ll give up
the effort to catch a train, and go in at
’em. If not, we’ll wait. Hm! The ma¬
chine-gun for that barracks at the land¬
ing-field . . . two men to burn the plane
. . . parties for each of those huts along
the line of trestle.”
A guard joined them, was left on
watch, and they returned to the camp.
All the men, except Pete Babenks, were
astir; they left him snoring on, utterly
exhausted.
Captain Vikoski gave Akonen six men,
and set about instructing the others in
their various positions and duties. The
light machine-gun was put together, the
ammunition belts prepared, grenades and
bombs unpacked, rifles readied. Akonen,
with his six men, got his own outfit in
shape for use. Vikoski came over to
him; darkness was upon them.
“Ready? The snow's thinning out;
too bad. We’ll be covering you, in case
you’re discovered. Sorry I can’t be with
you. Good luck, brother!”
He shook hands gravely. Akonen
pointed to Pete Babenks.
“What about him?”
“Oh, he’ll sleep! ” The Finn shrugged.
“One of the men is sick and vomiting;
I’ll leave him to keep an eye on that
fellow. He can do us no harm now, any¬
way. Worried ?”
Kurt Akonen shook his head slowly.
“No; just a hunch. We have something
to fight for, Vikoski. Maybe he has a
cause, too! He’d be dangerous.”
“Maybe; if he has, then a rifle will
finish him.”
T HE squads were moving out. Because
of the deep snow, skis must be used
all the time, to the railroad line itself.
Kurt and his six men filed off. A last
hurried admonition from the Captain: If
by any chance the armored train came
the track anywhere. That train had to
be stopped, if nothing else were stopped!
Akonen assented and went on. Voices
pursued him and his men in hearty fare¬
well ; theirs was the ticklish errand. On
and on, keeping to cover wherever pos¬
sible, until the final dash out to the se¬
lected spot. No guards, no sentries were
in sight; darkness drifted down but the
snow was ceasing, and this was too bad.
Now came the last pause and a keen
scrutiny of the huts. Lighted windows
showed, but there was no sign of men
outside. Akonen gave the word, and
struck out across the open. The six
men spread afar, white parkas covering
them, ready for an alarm and a burst of
shots at any instant.
Nothing happened. They came to the
long bridge-span, left the skis, scrambled
to the roadbed.
Incredulous of this good luck and fired
with swift excitement, Kurt stood with
two men at one end of the span, the other
four men going to the far end. No
alarm. They worked fast, but with care.
The explosive was set and tamped, the
connections were made, the coils of wire
were strung out. And, beneath the night-
deepening skies, all remained quiet.
Now it proved there was more wire
than had been supposed, and Kurt Akon¬
en was delighted by the discovery. In¬
stead of taking his post between those
two blasts, he was able to run the wire
back, away from the line, to a little copse
of brush that had probably marked a
swamp-island before the ice and snow
came down. It was a hundred feet from
the railroad; not much, but enough.
Whoever closed the switch, must take his
chance.
As the work finished, Akonen sent back
+ he men, all save one. He made a good
job of the matter, emboldened by the ab¬
sence of any alarm, and covered the wires
with snow the full length. He had just
finished this and was returning to the
copse, when his remaining man clucked
with alarm. Akonen joined him.
“Sentries—careful 1 ”
T HEY lay in the snow, motionless.
From the huts were coming men, who
bore flashlights. It was a routine busi¬
ness, apparently; they did not leave the
track, but walked along, smoking, laugh¬
ing, talking, until they met. Then they
exchanged a few sentences, separated,
came back to their huts.
The train was coming to a halt,
“I’m going back to see the Captain,”
said Akonen to his men. “You wait here;
if a train comes from the south before I
return, press the plunger. If not, do
nothing.”
The man assented.
Akonen stroked out for the trees.
Luckily, those sentries had been care¬
less, had seen no ski-tracks—had not
even looked off the roadbed, apparently.
“We’re in luck.” Akonen finding the
Captain, pointed to the north, where
lights were dancing in the sky. “No
more chance of hiding, once the fun be¬
gins. If you want to blow up the train
yourself, why not come over to that copse
of trees and do it?”
Captain Vikoski wiped his long nose,
and sighed.
“Brother, it is my heart’s desire! But
there must be an officer in charge here.
You stay here, give the word and the sig¬
nal—a shot in the air—and I’ll go.”
“Done. I thought the explosion was
to be the signal ?”
“Certainly. Only, in case something
goes wrong first, in case we’re discovered
—then give the signal for the squads.
Men with dynamite and fuses and caps
have gone to blow up the other bridges,
after the work starts. No hurry. It
may be a long wait. Have patience.”
Vikoski slid away. The dancing auro¬
ra borealis was slowly growing stronger,
but not before it was out across the two mined piers.
at the sky— stab, stab-stab, stab, flash¬
His figure could be seen approaching the
copse. Presently the lone man came in,
with word that the Captain had chosen
to stay there alone.
Kurt Akonen hoped that Vikoski would
not close the switch by mistake.
A KONEN composed himself to pa-
. tience. With him, at this point, was
the squad which would attack the hut
opposite; others, on the right, were posted
opposite the airplane and barracks there.
Every man had his picked duty. Some
had capped and fused dynamite sticks
to throw as bombs at close quarters.
Others were assigned to use rifles only.
A mutter, a running word of alarm, of
caution. The air was athrob. By some
quirk of the dancing northern lights,
two planes coming up from the south
caught a full reflection of the greenish
glare. They were low-flying.
“Train coming,” said someone.
The largest hut, that near the grounded
airplane off to the right, disgorged a group
of men. They were singing, their voices
lifting in riotous, raucous sound. And
through this, through the growing roar
Of the two planes, Kurt Akonen caught
a sudden agonized yelp from one of the
Finns close at hand. Others, turning,
took it up. He, too, turned.
From the trees behind them and at
one side, a ray of light was reaching up
ing off and on. In the frightful, sicken¬
ing instant of comprehension, Akonen’s
mind drove to Pete Babenks. Either he,
or someone else, was signaling those fly¬
ers.
The two planes thundered on over¬
head. A light broke out from one of
them, reaching at the snow. They
changed course, separated, zoomed, and
turned.
“They saw it,” said a mournful voice,
as hope died.
Other tongues leaped—the train! Its
headlight appeared. But the two planes
were sweeping back, now, skimming the
trees. One opened fire with a machine-
gun, then the other. No need of any sig¬
nal now! Kurt heard the bullets whistle
and whine all around. Two of the men
beside him were kicking in the snow.
The others were gone to their objective.
And the train was coming on, an im¬
mensely long train, partly armored.
Flares broke out. The two planes cir¬
cled and came back. The soldiers near
the grounded plane were in wild activity,
hauling out machine-guns, and getting a
searchlight to work. The flares revealed
everything, even the onrushing Finns in
their white parkas.
A groan burst from Kurt Akonen as he
looked. The two planes had separated
widely. One was skirting the railroad,
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
machine-guns going. The scattered Finns
were mowed down as they ran. Not all,
however. Those with the machine-gun
had it almost to the railroad bed, ana it
opened suddenly on the crowded soldiers
fifty yards away. The searchlight died
out. The soldiers scattered frantically as
the lead tore through them. An instant
later, a trickle of flame rose from the
grounded plane; the two men assigned to
that job, had managed it. And the train
Was sweeping on, brakes shrieking, too
heavy to be stopped at once. A search¬
light was breaking out from it, then an¬
other, fingering across the snow.
A KONEN’S pistol was in his hand; one
r\ of the planes was rushing straight at
him, apparently. He looked up, startled,
lifted the pistol, fired rapidly: the plane
was not twenty feet above. Something
hit him violently, and he pitched sideways
into the snow.
He could not have lain there long. He
floundered, got loose from his skis, came
to one knee with a splitting pain across
the back of his head. Fingering it, he
found blood, already frozen; a bullet
wound, whether serious or not, he could
not tell. He found his pistol, found his
fur cap, got his skis buckled on again and
stood up. Binoculars were slung about
his neck. He got them out and focused
them clumsily.
Through them, he could see Captain
Vikoski, who lay outstretched at the edge
of the little copse; bullets must have
found him also. There was no difficulty
in seeing. From the grounded plane a
column of fire was sweeping up. Rifles
were going, a machine-gun was stuttering.
Northward, a red spurt roared; the men
with dynamite and fuses had reached
their objective yonder. There, too, in the
snow, another flaming pillar burned
among the trees, and there was only one
plane in the air. Kurt wondered dully
whether his pistol-shots had brought down
that plane, now burning its heart out!
Then his wonder passed, in the realiza¬
tion that someone must reach the copse
where Vikoski lay dead, and blow up
that bridge span.
He tried to move, and found himself
able. The train was coming, was already
passing the hut and the burning grounded
plane; the Finnish machine-gun was
blasting at it. From the train, search¬
lights fastened on the gun; several ma¬
chine-guns at once began to work, and
the Finns died. The train swept on, slow¬
ly coming to a ha,lt, but not before it was
out across the two mined piers. There
it rested.
The one plane in the air was sweeping
back, close to the snow. Kurt squatted,
white parka hood pulled over cap. Bul¬
lets buzzed around him, the plane went
on. He stood up, and was aware of a man
on skis close to him, coming at him.
“HI, Kurt! Thought it was you. Glad
I ran into you.”
Kurt’s pistol came up. Pete Babenks!
“Here, hold on!” cried the other
hastily. “I can fix everything for you,
Kurt; you and me are old friends, see?
They’ll do what I say—”
“It was your flashlight,” broke in
Akonen. “It was you who warned them! ”
“Yep; had to knock out the feller
watching me,” said the other. “No use
lying about it, I guess. I’ll take care of
you, Kurt. You’ve got nothing to fear—
hey! You aint going to murder me?”
The man’s voice shrilled. “I aint got a
gun, Kurt! Don’t murder me! ”
Akonen laughed harshly. “Not mur¬
der: execution, you damned traitor!”
“Oh! Traitor yourself!” Babenks
drew himself up, suddenly changing tone.
“All right, then kill me, damn you! Sure
I was a spy, aiming to get over into Fin¬
land. Sure I took the chance of giving
ou away. I’d do it again. That’s my
usiness, like yours is fighting on the
other side. Don’t call me a traitor,
though. Go ahead, damn you 1 ”
K URT froze, his unmittened hand
growing icy as he waited. It smote
into him what this man was, after all. An
enemy, yes. An enemy who had done his
desperate best, probably knowing him¬
self doomed in doing it; starting on one
errand and switching perforce to another
where he could do the most good.
“Do you want to be shot, Pete?” de¬
manded Akonen.
“Of course not, you damned fool! ”
“All right. I’m responsible for your
being alive now, for what you’ve done.
Go along with me as a prisoner to stand
trial, and I’ll not shoot you—unless you
try to escape. Don’t think for a moment
that I’ll trust you. Yes or no?”
“Yes! ” cried the other, after one deep
breath of incredulity.
“All right. Turn around. See that
copse of trees?” Akonen pointed. “We
go there first, then beat it for the frontier.
I want to make sure if Captain Vikoski’s
dead. You go first.”
“You’re a worse fool than I thought
you—” began Babenks.
WARLOCK FINN
Akonen cut him short.
“Never mind that. Travel! And if you
make a break, I’ll kill you.”
T HOUGH Akonen had no particular
idea of mercy, it had flashed upon him
that Babenks would be a prisoner of val¬
ue, who knew a lot and could be made to
talk. Also, there was his own responsi¬
bility, not to be shirked. First of all,
detonate those charges, help VikOski if
that were possible, and get away. The
madness of this intent was plain before
him—searchlights from the train were
sweeping the whole expanse; men were
pouring from the coaches; the airplane
was curving around and returning.
“March! ” said Kurt. “I’m after you.”
Babenks obeyed, with a rolling curse.
That little copse was horribly close to the
railroad. The airplane came and roared
past, either not seeing them or ignoring
them. Then a searchlight from the train
picked up the two figures and held steady.
Kurt realized it was the end. A machine-
gun would be chattering at them in an¬
other moment. He must plunge forward
and throw that switch before they got
him—reach that copse if he had to do it
on hands and knees!
“All right, Pete,” his voice crackled.
“Wait here. I’m going—”
He heard a machine-gun begin its
infernal stuttering—another joined in;
he was lost, and knew it. Then something
happened. Beneath the train leaped forth
a huge crimson glare. Another explosion
flamed from the farther pier. One or
both of those detonations must have
reached munitions in the cars; with an
air-shattering roar and a sheet of fire that
soared into the sky, the entire train
seemed to disintegrate; so did the earth
and snow and heaven. In the very flash
of realization that the switch had been
closed, Akonen was knocked a dozen feet
away and under the snow.
That shock was terrific. He struggled
out, extricating his skis; train and sol¬
diers and track seemed blown out of ex¬
istence. Things began to rain all around
—bits of flesh of men, wood, steel frag¬
ments. Akonen, trying to fasten his ski-
clasps, stumbled over a body. He stooped.
It was Pete Babenks, dead, pierced by
half a dozen machine-gun bullets in the
instant before the explosion.
Kurt realized now that blood was on
his neck, coming from his ears; he was
deaf. No matter. He slid forward. No
one paid any heed to him now; the very
air was still aquiver with frightful echoes
and more frightful voices. He came to
the copse. There was Captain Vikoski,
just as Kurt had seen him through the
binoculars, lying with hands outflung, a
smile on his wedge-like features. He was
dead, had been dead a long time, frozen
hard.
So he had not closed the switch. Who
had, then ? It lay a dozen feet away from
Vikoski. There was no one else here.
The snow showed no traces of anyone
else. Kurt Akonen stood up, a cry on his
lips, looking wildly around. He thought
he could hear Vikoski’s voice in his ear:
“All the ghosts and the ancient spells of
Finland are helping us. .. . Everybody
knows a Finn is a wizard."
Kurt Akonen turned and slid away,
away toward the forest and the white
birches and the frontier. There were a
dozen reasons why that explosion might
have been delayed, and none of them was
probable. Nothing was probable. Vikoski
was laughing again, laughing in his shrill,
mocking way. Kurt Akonen, hearing
that laughing voice, glanced around.
Then he realized there was no voice at
all. He could hear nothing; he Was stone
deaf, and his ears burned, and his
wounded head hurt horribly. “We shall
perish,” Captain Vikoski had said. “We
must give ourselves for Finland. . . . But
you, who come to our aid from a far
country, you will be helped."
H E came upon something dark against
the snow; it was the body of Pete
Babenks. He halted, looking down. The
spy had got his deserts, after all. Akonen
stooped, with some difficulty, and got his
hand inside the frozen bloody fur coat.
There was the roll of money; he took it,
gladly. Russian money, blood-money;
Finland could use it! And he took, also,
the man’s passport. He would need that,
to send the five-spot he owed; he must
send it to Pete’s widow in Detroit, he
reflected.
Then he rose and sluff-sluffed on, in
among the trees, where one or two figures
in white parkas moved to meet him. Only
one or two. There was no pursuit. Be¬
hind, everything was death and ruin.
Kurt Akonen faced toward the frontier
again, and his face was twisted in a
wondering, hopeless frown of inquiry.
That switch had been a good dozen feet
away from the frozen corpse of Vikoski.
Who, then, had closed it? Who— Or
what?
He could guess, all right; but it was
only a guess—a Finn’s guess.
45
(Orient Express
Illustrated by Charles Chickering
A comedy of the In-
telligence service—
and a surprising ex¬
ploit of the Red Wolf
of Arabia.
By William Makin
N voiture, mesdames et mes¬
sieurs !”
The chocolate-uniformed con¬
ductor of the Athens coach of
the Orient Express almost whispered the
command. But Europe was again at war,
and the heavily masked lights of the Gare
de Lyon induced subdued tones. Every
window of the train was firmly closed
and curtained. The few travelers, soon
to be hermetically sealed for the crossing
of many frontiers, broke away from mute
groups and scrabbled aboard.
Five minutes to nine.
Paul Rodgers lit another cigarette and
cursed softly. Beyond the barrier he
saw groups of French soldiers, bowed un¬
der the burdens of rifles, knapsacks,
shrapnel helmets and nailed boots, drift¬
ing toward a troop-train: Paris was
sending another batch of men to defend
the Maginot Line. Rodgers wished de¬
voutly that he was going with them. In¬
stead, he waited impatiently for a wom¬
an, and a journey that would take him
away from war.
At two minutes to nine she arrived.
She came imperiously, attended by
three uniformed porters of the most lux¬
urious hotel in Paris. The brilliant-col¬
ored scarf that floated from her throat,
the fountain of sables cascading from
her shoulders, and the high French heels
of her shoes seemed an affront to this
shabby, serious Paris of the winter of
1940. With her head held high and her
unusually beautiful features emerging
toward him from out of the gloom, Rodg¬
ers saw her as a living replica of the
Winged Victory of Samothrace.
For one moment her brilliant dark eyes
rested upon him as he stood there in his
rather shabby traveling-clothes. Rodgers
felt himself redden. The glance was more
than the cold blank stare of a statue. It
registered deliberate indifference.
She gestured with an exquisitely gloved
hand to the train, and flung a few con¬
temptuous words of French at the por¬
ters. They hurled themselves forward
with her little mountain of baggage. A
moment later they bowed to her con¬
temptuous dismissal.
She stepped aboard. A lamp was
waved, dumbly. Without a sound, in al¬
most furtive fashion, the Orient Express
began to glide away from the platform.
Rodgers had swung himself aboard. He
had to stand in the corridor while the
magnificent creature gave strategic or¬
ders to the conductor for the disposal of
her baggage in the compartment. It
seemed likely to be interminable.
“Will you pardon me?” said Rodgers,
in English.
She turned her dark eyes upon him
again. There was the faint suggestion
in her imperious gaze that someone had
spoken. She stepped delicately into her
compartment.
“Thank you!” muttered Rodgers.
His own compartment was adjoining.
He flung himself on his bunk. He was
perspiring as though after a fierce en¬
counter. When the conductor stepped
in to collect tickets and passport, Rodgers
was refreshing himself with a flask of
cognac.
“When do we reach Athens?” he asked.
“Three days hence, monsieur.”
46
Rodgers sighed at the departing con¬
ductor, and gave himself up to sleep.
He awoke abruptly. He reached over
and flicked up the blind. Dawn was tint¬
ing the snow-capped mountains. He
judged the train had just left Lausanne.
The wheels were sounding rhythmically.
But it was a quiet, precise conversation
in French in the adjoining compartment
that had awakened him. The imperious
Voice of the woman sounded.
“I swear that if you do not leave this
compartment at once, I will shoot you! ”
A heavy masculine laugh had followed.
“That would be a great pity, Frau-
lein, both for you and that charming
young man whose photograph I see in
your dressing-case.”
“My brother can look after himself.”
“Maybe, but—”
“What do you want?”
“To talk business—big business.”
Bent with his ear to the thin door sep¬
arating the two compartments, Rodgers
did not hesitate. He reached out for a
dressing-gown, inserted a key in the lock,
and stepped into \ the lighted compart¬
ment.
Two faces swiveled at his entrance.
The woman, in a yellow silk dressing-
gown that emphasized the raven-black
hair drooping over her proud neck, opened
her eyes wide in astonishment. Her slim
hand held an automatic pistol. It was
pointed at a heavy, grizzled-haired man
who was in the act of lighting a cigarette.
But even his blue eyes registered surprise
as the lithe figure of the newcomer
stepped into the compartment.
“Der Teufel!” he exclaimed. “It is
my old enemy Paul Rodgers, the Red
Wolf of Arabia.”
W ITH a tightening of his lips, Rod¬
gers recognized the German.
“I might have known, Krauss, that
you would be up to your old tricks.”
“But my dear Rodgers, my country
is at war.”
“I am quite aware of it.”
“And once again we are enemies?”
“Very much so.”
“A pity. But it is amusing to meet
like this on neutral soil.”
“May I point out,” interposed that
imperious voice, “that you are making
use of my personal wagon-lit for your
reunion.”
Krauss grinned at Rodgers.
“She is a beauty, hein? It is a pleas¬
ure to have to deal with such a creature.”
“Nevertheless, she is a lady,” replied
Rodgers, “and I must say that under the
circumstances you are behaving in a dis¬
gusting fashion.”
The German shrugged.
47
“Always your fault, my dear Rodgers,
insisting upon being a gentleman under
all circumstances. The British will nev¬
er win a war with public-school inhibi¬
tions.”
“May I again ask both of you gentle¬
men to what I owe the honor of your
forced entrance into my compartment?”
Her voice was acid. “If no explanation
and apologies are promptly forthcoming,
I propose to stop the train.”
H ER hand was already reaching for
the alarm-signal.
“Please, Fraulein, no further delaying
of the Orient Express,” said Krauss. “It
was an hour late when I boarded it at
Lausanne, and a dismal business it was,
waiting in the dawn. Suppose you put
away that absurd pistol and ring for the
conductor, instead. I think it would be
an excellent idea for us all to have hot
coffee and rolls in this compartment.”
“I don’t think I ought to allow that,”
said Rodgers, stubbornly.
“Oh, come! I give you my word that
I will not talk business.”
“Well, if the lady has no objections?”
hesitated Rodgers, turning toward her.
There was suppressed fury in her eyes.
Nevertheless she thrust the pistol into a
pocket of the yellow dressing-gown and
rang for the conductor. That individual
appeared in shirt-sleeves and yawning.
His yawn froze at the sight of the trio.
“Coffee and rolls for three, vite!” de¬
manded Krauss.
If the circumstances were peculiar, the
coffee and rolls when served were excel¬
lent. Krauss, helping himself liberally
to butter, was in an amiable mood.
“How delightful to find oneself at this
time in a country which is not at war, and
with no food rationing!” he murmured,
gulping his coffee greedily. “I must say
the Swiss always do themselves well.”
“The Swiss have happily preserved
their neutrality for over a hundred
years,” emphasized Rodgers.
“Alas, that is true,” nodded the Ger¬
man. “They might have produced more
men of genius had they been invaded.
As it is, after a century of peace, their
greatest creation is the cuckoo clock.
What do you think of the Swiss, Frau¬
lein ?”
The lady in the yellow dressing-gown
licked some apricot jam delicately from
her finger-tips before replying. She was
beginning to accept the unusual couple
with more equanimity. Nevertheless she
retained a cat-like aloofness.
“I have met the Swiss only in hotels,”
she replied vaguely. “I find them very
attentive and efficient. Their faces re¬
mind me of the cows in their pastures.”
Krauss flung back his head and roared.
“You have wit as well as beauty, Frau¬
lein Coukidis. If the Greeks had an Aris¬
tophanes today, he would be writing a
comedy worthy of you.”
There was a slight flush on her un¬
rouged cheeks.
“Both of you appear to know who I
am,” she began.
“Who has not heard of Dmitri Couki¬
dis, the Greek millionaire of Piraeus whose
fleet of freight-steamers covers the Le¬
vant!” murmured Krauss. “But I will
confess that this is the first time I have
met his charming and beautiful daughter,
Fraulein Helene.”
“Yet you choose to introduce yourself
by knocking at the door of my compart¬
ment, announcing yourself as a customs’
official and demanding entrance,” she
continued. “Who are you, Herr Krauss,
if that is really your name ?”
“I can answer that,” said Rodgers,
draining his cup of coffee. “I have his
dossier complete in my mind. We are
old—er—enemies.”
“So I gathered,” she said.
“Go ahead, my dear Rodgers,” said
Krauss. “Tell her the worst. I am all
attention. Is there any butter left?”
R odgers hesitated.
. “Yes, Karl Krauss really is his
name,” he began. “He seldom changes it,
even though he is one of the best secret
agents of the Nachrichten Bureau of
Berlin.”
“I change it no more than you do your
own, Rodgers,” interposed the German.
He smiled reassuringly at the Greek lady.
“Do not believe those fantastic stories
of the secret service that you read in
books, Fraulein. Rodgers, who is one of
the best agents in the British Intelligence,
will tell you that such tales are non¬
sense.”
“I do not waste my time reading such
books,” said Helene Coukidis, coldly.
“I first met Krauss some years ago in
Teheran,” resumed Rodgers. “He claimed
to be nothing more exciting than a travel¬
er in toys—German toys, of course. He
sold flaxen-haired dolls to dark-haired
people, and incidentally made puppets of
them all. His real business was the sell¬
ing of machine-guns, airplanes and incen¬
diary bombs. His political objective was
a revolution, and then the appropriation
48
for Germany of the British-capitalized
oil-fields.”
“Pleasant days 1 ” mused Krauss.
“He managed to get the Shah of Per¬
sia out of the way by inducing him to go
to Paris. Paris, he shrewdly decided,
would kill the Shah with its pleasures
quicker than would Berlin. His plans
were working out admirably. The Shah
died in Paris. The subtle business of rev¬
olution began. Krauss became a nui¬
sance. It was necessary to get rid of
him.”
“Why didn’t you kill him?” asked the
Greek lady.
Krauss, his mouth full of food, pro¬
tested.
“My dear Fraulein, I’m sure you do
read those fantastic spy novels.”
“Within a week of my arrival in Teher¬
an, I had him shanghaied one night,”
went on Rodgers, complacently. “Krauss
was taken to Basra, pushed aboard a
steamer, and I conveniently forgot him.
I did not see him again for some years.”
DIRTY trick,” said Krauss, shak-
ing his head. “I wouldn’t have be¬
lieved my friend Rodgers capable of it.
Do you know, Fraulein, that I did not
step ashore from that filthy ship until
three weeks later. I then discovered that
I was in Sourabaya, and a very long way
from home.”
“But he got home in time,” resumed
Rodgers. “He resumed his profitable oc¬
cupation, selling guns from the factory of
Krupp. He was sent to South America,
and wherever he found trade bad, he
started a revolution. I heard that he did
quite well.”
“Very well, danke sehr.”
“Krauss returned to a Germany that
was itself in revolution. One heard of
him in a gang led by Ludendorff. Then
he was engaged by the famous Colonel
Nicolai. By the time Hitler and the
Nazis were in power, Krauss, because of
his experience, held an important post.
Later I met him in Istanbul. On that oc¬
casion Krauss behaved in almost dis¬
graceful manner.”
“Actually, I returned the dirty trick
with interest on my old friend Rodgers,”
chuckled Krauss, lighting a cigarette.
49
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Now, with our countries at war, we
meet again,” said Rodgers, quietly.
“And in my private compartment,” in¬
sisted the Greek lady, helping herself to
a cigarette from the packet carelessly
thrown toward her by Krauss.
“That is only because Krauss works
with a brutal directness,” said Rodgers,
also helping himself to a cigarette.
“May I ask, then, why I should be the
victim of your forced entrance, the sub¬
ject of your threats, and suffer the doubt¬
ful pleasure of your company?” asked
the Greek lady.
“I assure you, Fraulein, I have the
most amiable intentions.”
“I am waiting to hear Mr. Rodgers’ ex¬
planation,” she said severely. “He ap¬
pears to be possessed of a key opening to
my compartment, which is more than
you could claim, Herr Krauss.”
“I admit an explanation is due, made¬
moiselle,” smiled Rodgers. “Might I
suggest, therefore, that you join me at a
table for luncheon, in the restaurant-car
at noon?”
“Excellent idea,” exclaimed Krauss.
“Make it a table for three.”
“I have no intention of allowing you
to force your acquaintance further upon
this lady.”
“Oh, come, Rodgers!”
“I think I should prefer a table d deux,”
said the Greek lady coldly. “Perhaps
Herr Krauss may have the opportunity
of forcing himself upon my company at
dinner, which I understand is at eight
o’clock.”
“Shortly after leaving Trieste,” nodded
the German. The smile had left his face.
“Yes, I think we shall be dining together,
Fraulein.” He saw that an equally stern
expression was on the face of Rodgers.
He rose slowly to his feet, gave a stiff bow
and a click of the heels. “Auf wieder-
seken, then.”
P ICKING up his packet of cigarettes,
he sauntered out of the compartment.
The Greek lady turned to Rodgers.
“And now, perhaps you’ll oblige me
also by leaving my compartment. We
meet again at noon.”
With a sigh, Rodgers rose and passed
through the communicating doors. As
he entered his own compartment, he
heard the savage snap of a bolt.
From the windows of the restaurant-
car, the placid waters of Lake Maggiore
reflecting mountains and islands, seemed
a vision of an unreal world, a world at
peace. But Rodgers had to admit that
the vision confronting him was much
more distracting. Helene Coukidis had
taken the trouble to appear at her best.
Incidentally her velvet eyes rested ap¬
provingly on the slim, agile figure of
Rodgers with his earnest, ascetic features.
“It begins to appear that you are
adopting the role of protector to me,”
she began, sipping at the excellent wine
■which he had chosen.
“I am afraid that is exactly why I am
here,” he admitted.
“But why? Is it considered danger¬
ous for a woman to take a journey in the
Orient Express, even though Europe is
at war?”
There was an ironic smile on her slight¬
ly rouged lips.
“Extremely dangerous,” said Rodgers,
quietly, “particularly when you are car¬
rying a document signed by the British
Government, and worth nearly half a mil¬
lion pounds.”
Her hand instinctively went to her silk¬
en blouse.
“So you know why I went to London ?”
R ODGERS glanced over his shoulder.
Several tables away, Karl Krauss
was enjoying a hearty luncheon with a
huge mug of beer. The German raised
the mug of beer in genial salute, grinned,
and bent his grizzled head to the meal.
“I am fully aware, mademoiselle, that
on the outbreak of war, your father, Dmi¬
tri Coukidis, shrewdly decided he would
offer his fleet of steamers to the highest
bidder in Britain or Germany. Unable
to travel, himself, he sent you, his daugh¬
ter, to negotiate the sale in London. At
the same time your brother Simon was
sent to Berlin to discuss the same prop¬
osition with the Nazi Government. Dmi¬
tri Coukidis knew full well the value to
the Nazis of his steamers trading under
the Greek flag. Plying across the Medi¬
terranean and using such ports as Pi¬
raeus, Trieste and even Genoa, they could
carry the desperately needed supplies for
a Germany at war.”
“I can see that you fully appreciate
the value of my father’s business,” she
smiled.
“Let us say that the British Govern¬
ment fully appreciated the value of those
ships to the extent of half a million
pounds,” said Rodgers. “They, at least,
were determined that Germany should
not have the use of this fleet of freight¬
ers. Within twenty-four hours of your
arrival in London, an offer was made.
A bill of sale was approved, and an order
50
ORIENT EXPRESS
on the -Egean Bank in Athens handed to
you. It needs only the acceptance of your
father, to whom you are now taking the
document, for the sale to be concluded.”
“Well, then,” she flashed at him, “if
such a satisfactory deal has been con¬
cluded, why should the British Govern¬
ment consider it necessary to provide me
with such a—er—presentable escort?”
Rodgers flushed at this speech.
“Because the deal is not really con¬
cluded until your father, Dmitri Couki-
dis, presents the order on the bank,”
he said.
“Are you suggesting that what the
Coukidis promise they do not fulfill?”
He shrugged. “The forced entry of
Karl Krauss into your compartment this
morning indicates that Germany has not
yet given up hope of securing that fleet
of steamers for use by the Nazis. We
were fully aware in London that your
brother was trying to deal with Wil-
helmstrasse at the same time that you
were negotiating an offer in Whitehall.
The British Government closed the deal
exactly an hour before the Nazi Govern¬
ment offered to buy. I believe the Brit¬
ish figure was slightly higher than that
offered by the Nazis?”
PPARENTLY even my private tele¬
grams have been read,” she said,
biting her lips.
“Despite their attempt at a code, yes,”
he replied. “Once the deal was com¬
pleted in London, you booked on the
Orient Express. I was ordered to travel
on the same train and see that you ar¬
rived safely—with the bill-of-sale — at
Athens.”
“Which explains your own uninvited
entry into my wagon-lit?”
“Exactly. Krauss has obviously been
ordered to rectify this business which
was bungled by Wilhelmstrasse. His
aim is to secure the steamers for Ger¬
many. It explains his boarding the train
at Lausanne.”
“And you really think that an indi¬
vidual of the caliber of this Herr Krauss
can divert the sale to Nazi Germany?”
“I have never underestimated the pow¬
ers of Karl Krauss, even though I de¬
plore his methods,” smiled Rodgers in
his turn. “He is without doubt empow¬
ered to offer you a higher price than that
given by Britain.”
“It is too late,” she said. “You will
both discover that the word of a Cou¬
kidis is as good as a bond. The deal is
settled.”
“Which means that Krauss will at¬
tempt more direct methods,” said Rodg¬
ers, bluntly. “It is likely to be some¬
thing more drastic than entering your
wagon-lit.”
“For example?”
“Did I not hear him threaten you re¬
garding your brother, the youth whose
photograph you carried in your dressing-
case ?”
He saw her cheeks pale.
“He can do nothing against my broth¬
er. Simon is already on his way to
Trieste, there to board this train and
accompany me back to our father in
Athens. I had a telegram from him,
after he had left Berlin. He congrat¬
ulated me on the deal in London.”
“Even so,” said Rodgers, stroking his
chin thoughtfully, “there are unusual re¬
sources at the command of our fellow-
traveler, Karl Krauss.”
“Let us not spoil this lunch further
with talk of business,” she said. “It ap¬
pears that I am to have your company
as far as Athens. I intend to make the
most of it. It was a charming thought
of the British Government to provide me
with a bodyguard. Now that you have
introduced yourself, I wish to say I ap¬
prove. In fact, I know I shall enjoy the
feeling of security you bring.”
There was a flirtatious gleam in her
eyes, but Rodgers did not respond.
She sensed his indifference, and it
piqued her feminine assurance. She sav¬
agely stubbed the cigarette in the ash¬
tray. The train had stopped for a few
moments. She glanced out of the win¬
dows at the peasants on the platform.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Baveno,” he replied. “We are now in
Italy. On the other side of the lake,
there, you can see Stresa.”
“Famous for another international
failure,” she nodded. “I wonder where
the Peace Treaty of this war will be
signed, and whether it will be worth the
paper it is written on?”
But Rodgers did not reply. He had
just glimpsed the burly form of Karl
Krauss emerging from the telegraph of¬
fice. The German gave a genial grin to
an Italian officer pacing the platform.
The next moment the Orient Express
moved toward Milan.
,w | 'RTESTE in ten minutes, monsieur.”
1 Rodgers roused himself from his
book of verse, the rhythmic rumble of
wheels, and the brightly lit compartment.
He flicked up the blind and stared out
51
into the darkness. The blackness was
split by a beam of light from the harbor
lighthouse. A liner, her decks brightly
lit, and arc-lamps revealing derricks
swinging cargo aboard, showed that this
Mediterranean port was exceedingly
busy.
The mellowed Austrian architecture
flitted past. The brick walls were
scrawled with Italian inscriptions, the
“Viva Mussolini” forcing itself upon the
attention. Then the illumination in¬
creased. The Orient Express had steamed
into the station. The platform was live¬
ly with uniformed figures, vendors of
newspapers, and the inevitable white-
jacketed youth pushing a cart filled with
bottles of Chianti, cold roasted chickens,
ham rolls, and coffee. The station clock
registered eight o’clock. The Orient Ex¬
press was on time.
As the train drew to a standstill, Rodg¬
ers let down the window and leaned out.
The chocolate-uniformed attendant was
already chanting instructions in the cor¬
ridor of the train.
“Messieurs et mesdames l Please to
remain seated in your compartments.
No one is permitted to leave the train.”
Yet one figure had descended, even
before the Orient Express drew to a
standstill. It was the lively, irrepressible
Karl Krauss. He hurried forward, to be
met by two Italian policemen, who sa¬
luted him importantly. They conversed
quickly together. One of the policemen
jerked a hand significantly over his shoul¬
der. Rodgers followed the direction of
the gesture.
As he did so; he heard a cry from the
next compartment. Helene Coukidis was
leaning forth from her window, an eager
expectancy on her face. Rodgers realized
she was searching for a glimpse of her
brother, who had promised to meet her
on the train at Trieste. She had sudden¬
ly seen him.
Pale-faced, and with a strained expres¬
sion, he was walking down the platform.
On either side of him marched an Italian
policeman. His hands were held in mute
fashion before him. They were man-
acled, and he was being urged toward the
waiting Karl Krauss and the other two
policemen.
The German watched the approach
with a sardonic grin on his face. He
lifted his face toward the agitated He¬
lene Coukidis.
“A depressing business, Fraulein,” he
murmured. “It seems your brother has
been arrested on a serious charge. Es¬
pionage, I am told. I have decided to
remain in Trieste myself and see that
justice is done. Should you also desire
to descend here, I have already arranged
the trifling matter of your passport visa.
It is possible for you to stay the night.
I am told they serve a most excellent
dinner in the Hotel Bella Vista—where,
no doubt, you would like to join me.”
But already she was struggling toward
the platform, and she ran toward her
captive brother.
“Simon! What have they done?
Where are they taking you?”
She gasped the words in Greek.
The good-looking youth shrugged.
“Don’t worry, Helene. They’ve ;
rested me on a fantastic charge. They 1
got nothing against me, and—”
Roughly, at a sign from Krauss, t
policemen jerked the youth away. I
petuously, Helene was about to folic
but the bulky form of Krauss barred t
way.
“You heard what your brother sa
Fraulein? There is no need to wor:
I am looking into his case personal
Ah, I see already the conductor is <
positing your baggage on the platfoi
Shall we say dinner within the ho
Fraulein? Auf wiedersehen!”
And with a parting grin, he swaggei
away in the direction taken by the Ital:
police and their prisoner.
Rodgers had quickly sensed the imj
cation of this new development. 1
spite the protest of the conductor, he 1
forced his way on to the brightly ligh
platform. He tried to speak to Heli
Coukidis, but she was almost hysteri<
“Simon is in danger. I must go
him,” she repeated excitedly.
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“But don’t you realize that it is a
trick, a prearranged plan to prevent you
from reaching Athens?”
“I must be with Simon.”
“And what about the contract with the
British Government, signed in the name
of Coukidis?”
“What care I for any contract?” she
flashed back. “Simon is in danger.”
Rodgers groaned in his impatience. He
wanted to seize this woman and forcibly
thrust her back on to the Orient Express.
But already she was moving toward the
station exit, her baggage trundled along
behind. Rodgers realized that importun¬
ing officials were all the time at his side,
babbling in Italian, French and bad Eng¬
lish for him to resume his place on the
train.
“It is absolutely forbidden —dejendu
— verboten —for a passenger to walk the
platform. I beg of you, monsieur, mis¬
take—signor—before you are arrested—”
A RRESTED / The word fixed itself in
. the mind of Rodgers. He turned.
The white-jacketed youth came alongside
pushing the cart filled with bottles of
Chianti, cold roasted chickens, and ham
rolls. At a gesture from Rodgers he
stopped expectantly.
The lithe figure with the red hair
leaned toward the cart, a strange gleam
in his eyes. He selected the largest bot¬
tle of Chianti he could find. Deliberately
he held it poised in his hand for a second.
Then, with the sudden, whirling motion
of throwing a hand-grenade, he hurled it
through the window of the station res¬
taurant. The awful crash of glass trans¬
fixed those persons on the platform.
But Rodgers had only just begun.
Another, and yet another bottle he seized
and flung in other directions. A roasted
chicken caught a bustling Italian busi¬
ness man in his well-lined spaghetti
paunch. He slid to the ground with a
groan. A ham roll plastered the face of
a policeman. The grinning driver of the
Orient Express, leaning over the side of
the locomotive, caught with grimy hand
a flying packet of chocolate.
“Bravissimol” he chortled, and then
spat fury as an orange struck his face.
The white-jacketed youth stood with
mouth open, watching this madman
wrecking his stock-in-trade. Every bot¬
tle of wine had been smashed. The cart
was almost empty. Then, when the mad¬
man saw an approaching posse of police,
the trolley was sent careering madly
along the platform toward them. They
dodged it agilely, and it crashed into a
bookstall, where yellow-backs tumbled in
an avalanche of disorder.
It was all over in three minutes. The
Italian agents fell upon Rodgers. The
blowing of police whistles mingled with
the impatient Whistle of the Orient Ex¬
press. Ignoring the struggle, a railway
official walked the length of the train
blowing a tin trumpet, There was a hiss
of steam as Rodgers went to the floor of
the platform beneath the weight of law
and order. . . .
As the Orient Express ierked itself out
of the station, Paul Rodgers was being
{ erked out of the exit. Hatless, and with
iis clothes drenched in red wine, he was
bustled into a taxi.
Already the rumor was being gasped
about Tieste. . . .
“A violent assassin has been captured
at the railway station. The monster
killed six people, and when he was over¬
powered, was streaming with blood! ”
The cell into which they flung Paul
Rodgers, unceremoniously, after a pains¬
taking examination of the charge of
violent insanity, was merely a box of
cement.
Slightly disheveled, but exhilarated
from his struggle, Rodgers realized at
first glance that escape was impossible.
The Italian who had built that prison,
was evidently acquainted with the classic
story of Casanova’s escape over the leads
in Venice. He intended that no dis¬
tinguished political prisoner should fol¬
low that example. Even the barred win¬
dow was situated some nine feet from
the ground.
B UT the fact that it was a prison
used for opponents of the Fascist
regime, was one of the reasons why Rodg¬
ers was exhilarated. He had discovered
that, ten minutes previous to his own
struggling entry in the hands of the
Italian police, a young Greek, Simon
Coukidis, suspected of espionage, had
been lodged in the cell next to the one
in which he was so hastily flung to await
proceedings.
Rodgers had, of course, been searched.
The importantly uniformed chief of the
prison who received him was obviously
disappointed at finding only a book of
verse, some small change and a piece of
chicken in the pockets of his prisoner.
There ought to have been more in the
possession of one traveling de luxe from
Paris to Athens in the Orient Express.
But that in itself made the charge of
54
ORIENT EXPRESS
madness more than plausible, confirmed
by the quiet inquiry of the prisoner as to
whether he could be locked in a cell that
contained a piano.
Actually, Rodgers was possessed of
other material belongings, A thin wad
of French banknotes, for example, to the
value of a thousand francs each. These
he now conjured from somewhere be¬
neath his torn clothing. He gazed at one
of these thousand-franc notes thought¬
fully, fcr a moment, and then pushed it
beneath the door of his cell. It mate¬
rialized in the corridor, along which
paced a prison warder, heavily.
It was true the warder was dreaming
of a certain dark-haired girl with the
face and allurement of a Botticelli angel,
but his ideas changed quickly at the sight
of the thousand-franc note. His foot¬
steps faltered. He glanced swiftly over
his shoulder. No one was looking. He
was alone with his duty. Swiftly he
stooped and picked up the note, and
equally as swiftly it disappeared within
his uniform. Then he resumed his pac¬
ing of the corridor, and only with an ef¬
fort could recall that vision of the dark¬
haired beauty.
T HE next time he passed the cell where
the madman was lodged, he was all
alert. He felt somewhat aggrieved that
another thousand-franc note was not vis¬
ible. In fact, he was roused sufficiently
to thrust back the grille shutter over the
door of the cell and peer into the lighted
interior. What he saw, intrigued him.
The madman stood , in the center of the
cell, holding in his hand in enticing
fashion two further notes of a thousand
francs each. Impossible to resist such
insolence from a prisoner: once again the
guard looked over his shoulder, satisfied
himself that all was well, and opened the
door of the cell.
He may have been surprised at the
swift blow that caught him beneath the
jaw and caused him to slide to the floor.
But his mind was equally swift. Before
he fell, his clawing hand caught the two
thousand-franc notes. And as he rolled
helplessly to the ground, the notes also
disappeared within his tunic. All that
was lost was the bunch of keys which
Rodgers calmly appropriated. The pris¬
oner stepped out of the cell into the cor¬
ridor, and locked the door behind him.
He moved swiftly to the next cell, un¬
locked it, and entered. A youth was sit¬
ting in hunched, despairing fashion on
the bed. He was Simon Coukidis.
“Come along 1” announced Rodgers, in
French. “Venez vite! I have a call to
make before we set off for Athens.”
The youth looked up in surprise.
“Who are you? And where are you
taking me ?”
“I’m taking you to see your sister,”
said Rodgers calmly. “Any further in¬
troductions can wait.”
Such was his peremptory tone, that
the young man did not hesitate. He fol¬
lowed Rodgers’ cat-like tread along the
corridor. He was in an agony of suspense
while various keys were tried on dif¬
ferent doors leading to an exercise yard
beyondj and heaved a sigh of relief when
the mam gateway presented no difficul¬
ties, owing to a merry Chianti party tak¬
ing place in the distant lodge. The street
beyond was dimly lit, and their hurried
progress was unnoticed.
Rodgers calmly made his way to the
main street where many citizens of
Trieste promenaded in thankfulness for
the few lighted cafes and cinemas which
were crowded. A garage announced it¬
self in blood-red neon. Rodgers entered,
and was soon bargaining with the shirt¬
sleeved proprietor.
“A car to take you into Jugoslavia?”
said the proprietor. “That is two hun¬
dred kilometers. And with this cursed
shortage in gasoline—” He shrugged.
“How much?” demanded Rodgers.
“For a thousand lire, it might be pos¬
sible.”
“I’ll give you one thousand five hun¬
dred if you can have a car ready in five
minutes.”
“Presto l” shouted the proprietor, real¬
izing that this was business. At his com¬
mand a sad-faced mechanic emerged
from the shadows. Still gulping the re¬
mains of his supper, he began to struggle
with a powerful Fiat;
“This is madness,” ventured Simon
Coukidis. “Already it is possible our
escape has been discovered. They will
send police cars in pursuit.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” smiled
Rodgers.
“Well, then?”
“Jump in! The car is ready.” Rodgers
turned to the driver. “Drive first to the
Hotel Bella Vista. I have to collect some
baggage.”
I N a moment they were speeding along
the main street. They drew up out¬
side a towering mass of cement which
announced itself as the Hotel Bella Vista,
with “all modern comforts.” Telling the
driver to wait, Rodgers strode confident¬
ly into the lobby of the hptel followed
by the hesitant young Greek. He faced
the reception-clerk.
“Herr Karl Krauss is expecting me,”
he said, in German. “What room?”
The harsh Prussian accents jerked the
clerk |to ? attention.
“Suite Sixty-seven, mein Herr. Shall
I announce you?”
“No.”
Rodgers was already striding into the
elevator, followed by the Greek. Arriv¬
ing at the sixth floor they walked along
the corridor until Suite Sixty-seven re¬
vealed itself.
Rodgers rapped at the door.
“An urgent message for Herr Krauss,”
he announced.
Something like a sigh came from the
room beyond. The door was unlocked,
and the irritated face of Krauss ap¬
peared. But the irritation turned to baf¬
fled rage as he was thrust forcibly aside,
and Rodgers and the youth elbowed their
way into the suite. Once again Rodgers
took the precaution to lock the door be¬
hind him, taking the key and pocketing
it. Then he turned.
In the background, seated at a small
desk, was Helene Coukidis. A pen was
in her hand, and she was obviously about
to sign the document which Krauss had
placed before her. In the black evening
gown she wore, the pallor of her features
was emphasized. There was open as¬
tonishment in her dark eyes at this sud¬
den entry. But she rose swiftly with a
cry to embrace her brother.
Krauss had realized the situation as
soon as the two men entered. As Rodg¬
ers reached out for the document on the
desk, his harsh voice was heard.
“Put up your hands, all of you! I’ll
shoot the first one who dares to move.”
He had his back to the door, and had
leveled a pistol at the trio.
Rodgers turned, raising his hands,
slowly.
“My dear Krauss,” he said, quietly,
“you are behaving as usual like a charac¬
ter in one of those novels you read.
Don’t be a fool. Realize that you’re
beaten.”
Krauss recovered his geniality at once,
but kept the pistol pointed steadily at
the group, where brother and sister had
fallen apart, each of them raising hands,
Helene Coukidis contemptuously.
“As usual, Rodgers, you are rushing
your fences. That, I believe, is the cor¬
rect English expression? But now that
you have so gayly stumbled into this
room, I shall make full use of you. You
will kindly witness the signature to the
document that Fraulein Coukidis is about
to sign, which sells the fleet of steamers
possessed by her father to the German
Reich. The Wilhelmstrasse is rather
meticulous about the legality of such
signatures. That such a document should
be witnessed by Paul Rodgers of the
British Intelligence will, I am sure, ap¬
peal to the Wilhelmstrasse. They will
certainly not question its authenticity.
Probably I shall be complimented.”
Krauss grinned. “Now, Fraulein, I’m
sure you are ready to lower those attrac¬
tive hands of yours and return to the
desk to complete the signature so rudely
interrupted.”
“Even if you get the document, Krauss,
that doesn’t mean that you get the ships,”
said Rodgers, standing aside as Helene
moved obediently toward the desk.
“Germans have the advantage of being
methodical in their plans,” chuckled
Krauss. “Already in Athens our agents
are waiting to pay the money to Dmitri
Coukidis, and take over the ships. Dmitri
Coukidis will do as he is told as soon as
he receives a certain telegram signed by
his adored daughter and son. When I
am satisfied that the deal is complete, I
shall place no further obstacles in the
way of your resuming your journey in
the Orient Express, which again passes
through Trieste tomorrow.”
H ELENE, white-faced, had taken the
pen. She was about to dip it into the
heavy inkwell, when she caught a glance
from Rodgers. She bent her head over
the document. In his eagerness, Krauss
made a step forward. The next moment
she had turned, and the heavy inkwell
was flung by her, full in the face of the
Nazi agent.
Simultaneously, Rodgers had dived for
the big feet of his man. The gun ex¬
ploded, and a bullet went into the ceiling.
Krauss came crashing heavily to the car¬
pet. He presented a pitiable object as
Rodgers seized the gun. Ink was stream¬
ing down his face, and had mixed with a
streak of blood.
“Bravo! ” nodded Rodgers, busy with a
curtain-cord on the wrists of his prisoner.
“A magnificent throw, mademoiselle.”
“I don’t read silly espionage novels,”
said the furious Helene, looking down on
the spluttering German. “But it may
interest you to know, Herr Krauss, that
I’ve seen many a custard pie thrown in
the movies. You ought to go more often
to see them.”
Krauss only spluttered his fury as Si¬
mon Coukidis joined Rodgers in safely
binding the prisoner to a chair. During
this operation, Helene took up the docu¬
ment and began to tear it into small
pieces.
“No time to lose!”
The commanding voice of Rodgers
interrupted this proceeding.
“Are you ready?” he added.
“If you mean for dinner, I’ve already
dined, thank you. It was over the din¬
ner-table that I learned to hate the face
of Karl Krauss.”
“So much the better if you’ve dined,”
decided Rodgers. “Put on that wretched¬
ly expensive fur coat of yours, and come
along.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Athens, by boat. The ship sails
at midnight.”
Helene Coukidis drew herself up.
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“I refuse. I will not travel in any
filthy steamer.”
“It happens to be one owned by your
father.”
“All the more reason why I should stay
here, spend a comfortable night, and
catch the Orient Express tomorrow eve¬
ning. I have a good deal of baggage
with me, too.”
There was a challenging glint in her
dark eyes. Rodgers squared his jaw. He
had a sudden desire to fling that inkwell
back at her. But he restrained himself.
He shrugged, sat down in a chair and
took out a cigarette.
“Very well, then,” he said, quietly.
“Let us sit here and amuse ourselves un¬
til the police come to capture your broth¬
er and take him back to the cell from
which I rescued him. I also have the
suspicion that instead of spending a
night in the hotel, you will really experi¬
ence an uncomfortable night in an Italian
prison cell. And I have no desire to get
myself into further trouble on your be¬
half.”
Her rouged lips tightened. She was
about to storm at this lithe figure who at¬
tracted her so violently and yet calmly
ignored her advances. But at this mo¬
ment her brother, in excited Greek, in¬
tervened.
“Let’s get away, Helene, while we can.”
Coldly she addressed Rodgers.
“At least you will allow me time to
change into a traveling-frock?”
He looked at his watch.
“We haven’t two minutes to spare,”
he said. “And even Adam, I suspect,
had to wait longer than two minutes for
Eve to change.”
S HE flung the magnificent furs over
her shoulders.
“I think you’re the most detestable
man I ever met in my life,” she snarled.
“I’m sure Krauss agrees with you,”
chuckled Rodgers as, with a parting nod
to the pinioned Nazi agent, he opened the
door, switched off the lights, and ushered
the Greek couple into the corridor. He
took the precaution of leaving a card
swinging on the doorknob of the suite:
“Not to be disturbed.”
As they descended by the elevator into
the lobby of the hotel, he once again ap¬
proached the reception-clerk.
“Herr Krauss gives strict orders that
he is not to be disturbed until the morn¬
ing. He has a slight headache. Will
you see that he has breakfast at eight?
Coffee and rolls, and plenty of butter.”
“Certainly, mein Herr”
Rodgers started away, then turned.
“And one more thing. Mademoiselle
Coukidis requests that her baggage be
placed aboard the Orient Express to¬
morrow and consigned to Athens. Herr
Krauss has kindly consented to settle her
account.”
“Very good, mein Herr.”
With a parting nod, Rodgers strolled
out of the lobby. He jumped into the
car where his two passengers were im¬
patiently awaiting him. Some whispered
words to the driver, and they drove at !
full speed toward the docks.
In a few minutes they arrived alongside
the ship that Rodgers had glimpsed
through the windows of the Orient Ex¬
press on entering Trieste. The passengers
were saying their last farewells. Officials
were already walking away from the
gangway and leaving it to be dismantled
by the sailors. A warning siren was
sounded.
R ODGERS had some final instructions
. for the driver.
“Go as fast as you can to the Jugoslav
frontier. At the frontier post you will
find a red-faced captain with a stern
manner. He will interrogate you. All
you have to do is to hand him this sealed
envelope. Then you return to Trieste.
You understand?”
“Si, signor.”
“And here is a hundred lire for your¬
self. Off you go!”
“ Grazia, signor.”
The delighted driver snicked his gears
and set off with the powerful car in the
direction of the frontier. He did not
know that police cars were already leav¬
ing Trieste in full pursuit of him.
“I am curious to know what was in
that letter,” said Simon Coukidis, as
Rodgers hurried him and his sister
towards the gangway.
“Just a blank sheet of paper,” smiled
Rodgers.
“But who is the red-faced captain with
the stern manner?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, but my
experience of frontiers proves that there
is usually such a captain, whatever the
country.”
They had reached the barrier of the
gangway. An official hurried forward
irritably at these last delaying pas¬
sengers.
“Passports and tickets!” he grunted.
“Left them aboard,” said Rodgers hur¬
riedly. “In fact, after seeing your de-
58
ORIENT EXPRESS
lightful city, all I have in my possession
is this—to which you are welcome.”
He pressed a hundred-lira note upon
the official.
It was sufficient.
“Grazia, signor, and a good voyage.”
The gangway was lifted behind them
as they stepped aboard. Rodgers gave
a glance at the fur-swathed figure who
had been silent since they left the hotel.
There were tears of mortification in her
dark eyes.
He sighed.
T HIRTY hours later, the aging Dmitri
Coukidis sat in his office overlooking
the busy port of Piraeus. He nodded his
head. He had just received a telephone
notification from his bank that he was
richer by half a million pounds.
“The ships now belong to Britain,” he
said, in his tired voice to Paul Rodgers,
who confronted him. “May I wish the
Allies a swift and successful conclusion
to the war.”
Rodgers drew his lean form from the
chair and also gazed out of the window.
Along the waterfront he saw three steam¬
ers. The blue and white Greek flags
were being lowered, and the Union Jack
fluttered in their place. He saw the
burly forms of British mercantile marine
officers taking over the command of
these ships. Simultaneously, he knew
that a similar act was taking place in
Alexandria and at Istanbul. Radio mes¬
sages were being flashed to ships at sea.
The fleet that was once the pride of
shrewd Dmitri Coukidis, was now under
orders direct from the British Admiralty.
“But I have also my personal thanks
to convey to you,” said Dmitri Coukidis.
“Only by your efforts am I able to wel¬
come home again the joy of my heart,
my daughter and my son.”
The old Greek was holding out his
gnarled hand in thanks. Rodgers took
it, and at the same time glanced at that
fur-swathed back which had been per¬
sistently turned upon him since he rushed
her aboard the steamer at Trieste. It
had been a cold and uncomfortable
journey across the Adriatic. Helene
Coukidis was still in that flimsy black
evening frock which she wore when
Rodgers ruthlessly dragged her away
from the wily Krauss.
She turned. Her dark eyes rested
challengingly upon the lithe form with
the tanned face and inscrutable eyes.
“Perhaps Mr. Rodgers would honor
us, papa, by dining at our home this eve¬
ning? It is full moon tonight, and if he
so desired he could see the Acropolis by
moonlight. It is the most beautiful
thing we could show him in Athens.”
Rodgers sighed, and shook his head.
“Alas, much as I would like to,” he
said, “I’m afraid I must decline. I have
work to do.”
“Are you afraid?” she challenged.
“There are some adventures which the
wise man does not enter upon,” he re¬
plied, cryptically.
“But at least you are staying in
Athens ?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“Then we shall meet again.”
She had recovered some of her confi¬
dence. There was a sureness in her
femininity as she held out her hand. She
realized that his rejection of her invita¬
tion was in itself, a victory. To Rodgers
she was, once again, the alluring Victory
of Samothrace.
“It may be that we shall meet again,”
he said, quietly.
“Then, au revoir,” she smiled.
And with a last flirtatious gleam of
those dark eyes, she released him.
H ALF an hour later, Rodgers went
through the foyer of the Hotel
Grande Bretagne. Grouping themselves
apart from the medley of French, British,
Italian and Greek personages who passed
to and fro, were three bullet-headed Ger¬
mans.
Each one lowered a copy of a German
newspaper as he sauntered in.
Rodgers hesitated, and stopped before
the most military-looking of the trio.
“You are, of course, awaiting Herr
Krauss?” he said, in German.
The military-looking man registered
surprise but, after a glance at his two
companions, nodded:
“Jar
“I have a message from him,” went
on Rodgers easily.
“So?”
“He will arrive in the Orient Express
within the next hour. He particularly
asks that you have sent up to his room a
tray of coffee and rolls, and plenty of
butter. You understand, plenty of but¬
ter.”
“It shall be done, mein Herr,” said the
German, impressed and rising.
“And please see that it is given to him
with the compliments of Paul Rodgers,”
nodded the red-haired man—and with a
parting smile, his lithe figure passed
through the door into the dining-room.
p\R?' '
In her defense, they offered their lives
against great odds.
By Georges Surdez
The Story Thus Far:
"-'LEGIONNAIRE, did you hear a
shot, awhile ago? • Very far
. away?” asked young Torval.
M. “I heard a pop, Lieutenant.
But as I saw no flash, I didn’t want to
wake up everybody. Sometimes a rock
cools off fast and splits. That makes
a pretty loud crack.”
But the private was not responsible
for Post Moziba, a few square yards of
sand surrounded by ineffective walls, oc¬
cupied by but twenty-eight Legionnaires,
close to a hostile zone swarming with
tribesmen to whom guns and cartridges
were more precious than gold.
Torval went back into his hot room.
And then—a shot, and the sentry’s cry:
■‘Aux armes — alerte—aux armes /”
Torval leaped up the narrow stairway
leading to the machine-gun platform.
“Why did you shoot ? What made you
call out?”
Copyright, 1940, by McCall Corporation (The
60
“I heard a shot, Lieutenant. Then I
heard somebody inside our wire.”
Torval sent up a rocket, and by its
light spied several figures running a short
distance outside the wire. A spot of fire
blinked; the crack of a rifle followed.
The Legionnaires opened fire, and the
strangers scuttled down the incline, van¬
ished in the dry bed of the arroyo. Si¬
lence now, and darkness.
“I could find out something in a couple
of minutes, Lieutenant,” said Corporal
Rochas. “I spotted one of them that fell
in the wire. How about letting me down
with a rope?”
Torval gave the order. Five minutes
later the Legionnaires hauled up the un¬
conscious figure of a wounded girl.
Next day, restored under the care of
a native woman, she told a strange story:
“I am Louise Sauvain. I was born in
Oran. I lived there until I was seven
Blue Book Magazine). All rights reserved.
Illustrated by
Jeremy Cannon
years old. Then my father, who had been
employed on the railroad, lost his job.
We moved to Morocco, my father, my
mother and me. My father became a
trader among the soldiers. The Chleuhs
surprised us, killed my father, took my
mother and me as slaves.
“We were not badly treated. After a
while, my mother became the wife of an
important man. She wanted to send me
back, to be French, but they would not
let her write. Then, one day, she died.
“My mother’s master said I was his
property. And a price of eight hundred
douros was offered for me. That was
much money for a woman. I had seen the
man. I said he was too old to wed. He is
an agha, you know, a chief among chiefs.
But he walks bent like a broken stick,
and he has a white beard, so long, and his
mouth has no teeth.”
Later that day a deputation of Arabs
arrived and demanded the girl; they said
her story was untrue, that she was an
Arab. Torval refused to give her up;
and the Arabs replied that they would
come with thrice five hundred men, and
destroy this little French outpost. That
night the Legionnaires made ready for
attack. (The story continues in detail:)
T HEY filed up the stairways.
Torval waited until the yard was
cleared, then followed them, taking his
61
station on the platform. So far as he
could think, he had prepared for effective
defense.
The task of defending four sides with
twenty-nine men, and seven of those
needed to handle the machine-gun and
automatics, was not as formidable as it
seemed. Certain angles of approach
were covered by natural obstacles. For
instance, the north side, just behind the
wire, dropped a sheer forty feet, and the
loose soil rendered a climb almost im¬
possible, even during the day. The
eastern side had a similar but lesser bar¬
rier, thirty feet of sharp slope.
T HE storming parties would probably
come in a drive for the southwest an¬
gle. Torval did not expect them to be
supplied with tools that would bite
through steel wire; and getting through
the wire would take effort and time. The
Lieutenant had seen automatic weapons
fired at close range into massed attackers
before. He felt that nothing could with¬
stand an automatic’s blast at a few feet.
The great danger was elsewhere: His
men were so few that casualties would be
felt immediately.
He placed the rocket-pistol within
reach. He must not fire it until he was
sure they were very close, so that the
fire support from the outside would be
aimed high to avoid hitting the attackers.
From time to time he rested his elbows
on the parapet, listened intently.
The open ground outside must be
acrawl with men by now. They were
progressing during the wind’s blasts. He
imagined them easily, separated in groups
of twenty or twenty-five, each group led
by a tested man. The first wave would
be half-nude, armed with knives and
clubs. Few pistols, for one-hand weap¬
ons are not popular among Saharans,
being very hard to provide with ammuni¬
tion and useless as hunting-guns. There
would be about one hundred and fifty
men in that first line, he figured, as many
as could maneuver with ease in the avail¬
able space.
With all hands on the walls, the sen¬
tries had ceased their pacing. The gou-
miers had taken most of the animals
with them. No one was below, no one
except the girl. There was not a sound
to be heard from the buildings.
Then Torval distinguished a single
point of light, the glowing tip of a ciga¬
rette. Holzhauser was smoking. But
as he was screened from the outside, that
did not matter.
Was she awake ?
That was not sure. If she had been
different, she might have been imagined
wringing her hands, crying. But she
never cried from fear, wept only from
hurt, humiliation. She had the fatalism
of Moorish women: What is written is
written; one dies only at the appointed
hour.
A light touch on his arm: Charanov
held up his arm, showing him the lumi¬
nous dial of his wrist-watch: Three-seven.
Perhaps they would not come tonight.
Blameni might have spoken the truth.
Or perhaps Moulay had decided that al¬
lowing them to stand an entire night of
useless vigilance, the second night would
find them relaxed. Moulay was not hard
pressed for time. If he succeeded to¬
morrow night, or even on the night fol¬
lowing, he would still have three days to
retreat into the far desert, where no
French forces could follow him without
long and careful preparations. For the
void of the unknown was behind the
natives, the almost uncharted reaches
sweeping southwest toward Mauritania.
Torval’s thoughts wandered, despite
all his efforts, behind the closed door of
the present emergency: Death.... Sup¬
pose he did not die? What would be
done with him ? He did not have to fear
prison. There was a sentence foreseen
for rebellious officers, but ordinarily res¬
ignation disarmed the army authorities.
How would his family accept his action ?
His people were relatively well-off.
But the money was needed for—he had
a younger sister, unmarried, to be pro¬
vided with a dowry. And his father, who
had served as a battalion-commander dur¬
ing the war, had acquired a high regard
for discipline. The women were kind,
loving, admirable. But still they were
62
women, Frenchwomen. To them, Louise
would be a half-savage female over whom
he had lost his head, wrecked his career.
Had he not been concerned, they would
have loved her, taught her. But as soon
as he was involved, they would bristle.
He tried to cast himself back in the
past: What would he have thought of
what he was doing, when in military
school? When in lycee? What would
his former classmates think of him, when
they learned of his foolish behavior?
Because, he realized, he could talk all
he wished to, later, if he survived; but
his motives would not be sought in a
chivalrous principle, but in some queer,
impulsive passion. And Louise was not
an argument against that belief. She
was beautiful enough for a man to lose
his head over her.
And what would become of her?
Would he, as Charanov claimed, feel
responsible and care for her? How?
What sort of employment could he find,
a cashiered army lieutenant? Suppose
she turned out to be, as now seemed
probable, a native, or a half-caste?
Would he, like Charanov, resort to
manual labor?
Charanov had been very wealthy as a
youth, as many Russians in the Legion
could remember; but when he had gone
on the beach, in Tunisia, with the rem¬
nants of WrangePs White Army, he had
known miserable months. Then he had
emerged, was happy enough—
The wind died down for seconds.
And in the lull, an undefined rumor
persisted, seemed to continue the giant
rustle. Brusquely there came a sharp,
metallic snap, the striking of a blade on
a stone. They were coming!
Now he could hear continuous, multi¬
plied scrapings, scratchings, as if a swarm
of moles were tunneling the sand. The
leading men had attained the wire, were
feeling their way through it. They were
not using clippers, for the tools made an
unmistakable sound which would have
been hard to muffle.
Probably they were sliding underneath
the barbed maze, propping up each
strand carefully. A wooden prop under
one wire, the stretch of a groping hand
to the next, a slide forward: Six inches.
Another prop under the next wire: Six
more inches. Being desert men, they
knew that the sounds they made were
audible, that the Legionnaires were
watchful, waiting for them with loaded
guns.
Yet they worked on in, doggedly, with
the machine-gun, the automatics, the
rifles and grenades ahead. Courageous
though they were, their hearts must be
pounding within their ribs! Beating so
hard that Torval imagined he could hear
them.
The Legionnaires heard, as he did.
But not one stirred, not one spoke. Their
steadiness matched that of the primitives.
They were Europeans, for the majority,
and achieved through discipline what
the others did because of life-long train¬
ing and inherited instinct.
Torval drew a deep breath.
“Fire l’’
And he pressed the trigger of the
rocket-pistol.
I T was as if he had set off a mine, for
the whole world exploded in a flash.
Flames licked out from the walls, and
even before the rocket bloomed above,
the darting stabs of fire lighted the scene.
The machine-gun trepidated at maxi¬
mum speed; the two automatics slashed
back and forth from the angles. Hun¬
dreds of rifles returned the discharges
from outside; the air was alive with
metal.
Then the raw, sinister light spilled
through the sky. Torval swept the en¬
closure with a glance, seeing fifty scenes
in one. The enemy was visible every¬
where, in clusters among the wires, in
scurrying groups beyond it. The natives
were shouting, not a coherent battle-cry,
but prolonged, shrill howling. Grenades
started to explode, with peculiar, glassy
explosions and blinding spurts of yellow¬
ish flame.
Then, in that unreal glare, Torval saw
something he did not understand at first,
a miraculous sight that made his hair
bristle on his skull: Naked men seemed
to run from the open, leap high into the
air—and then progress swiftly in what
appeared a level flight, skimming the
very top of the spiny strands.
“Machine-gun, bear right!”
T HE long, gleaming barrel jerked
sharply, the speed of the detonations
increased: And the flying men were
knocked out of the air; they tumbled,
struggled about with wild cries, arms
waving and legs kicking. The explana¬
tion was simple: The attackers had made
a pathway on top of the wire, by throw¬
ing mats, tent-rugs, faggots and blankets.
But the improvised bridge sagged and
sank, as the weight accumulated in spots.
The officer fired a second rocket.
He was the only man erect on the plat¬
form, and the bullets sought him in
swarms. There was a welcome second
of darkness between the two flares, a
black space filled with immense clamor.
When the flood of light returned, the
tips of poles were pointing over the
wall, and the nearest men to them leaned
flat along the parapet, priming grenades
which they dropped below with a flick
of the wrist.
A sharp explosion in the yard. At
first, Torval thought that someone had
dropped a grenade. But a warning shout
lifted, as other objects hurled high:
“Look out! They’ve got grenades!”
It was true: The attackers were using
explosives, and not homemade bombs,
from the sound. But fortunately, the
handling of grenades needs a certain
skill; and so eager were the Saharans to
to get rid of the dangerous objects that
they threw them too soon, and those
that landed on the wall-path or the plat¬
form could be kicked into space, in time.
As always in a melee, men seemed to
have minds for everything, eyes that
missed nothing. The fear of death quick¬
ens a brave man’s reactions. And as
always, some individuals showed up bet¬
ter than others. Men reputed to be slow
and unintelligent suddenly became swift
and crafty. Torval, between shots from
his pistol, caught sight of a lout named
Klautz performing a series of gestures
as precisely as if he had rehearsed them.
He drove his fist into the face of a
native scaling a pole, pushed that pole
with enough strength to knock it—and
the two bodies clinging to it—to one
side, dropped a grenade from his left
hand, turned as gracefully as a pelota
player, picked up a grenade that had
rolled between his feet, and flipped it
into the space outside before it could
explode. . . .
Darkness. Machine-gun and auto¬
matics continued to slash back and forth
for thirty seconds; a few more grenades
exploded. Then, without orders, the
firing slackened, stopped. As movement
was heard outside, moans, scattered de¬
tonations started again. This lasted for
perhaps five minutes. Then the men
caught in the wire either died or learned
to keep still.
“Everyone low, behind the parapet,”
Torval called. He crouched himself,
before firing the third rocket. There
were men hanging in the strands, like
currants on a twig. And a number of
bodies could be seen in the open. Two
or three bullets spattered against the
wall; more whined overhead. Then
darkness, silence.
Charanov had inspected the groups
rapidly, and reported: “Nobody serious¬
ly hurt, Lieutenant. Three face-wounds,
one shoulder, and any number of
scratches. All can carry on.”
“Nice job,” Torval commented.
“Yes. Good idea, that coming on
top!” The Sergeant chuckled. “Fun¬
niest thing I’ve seen in many years. But
they’ve done what was expected of the
first try: The wire is pretty badly
chopped up—our grenades, and theirs.
If they can clear a lane through it and
keep pouring, they’ll be up here.”
“Uncoil some wire and dump it at the
base of the wall in long spirals,” Torval
suggested. “They didn’t see it there
before, and it will surprise them.”
S IX men were sent to the store-dumps
below to bring up the coiled wire. The
corporal in charge of them returned al¬
most at once. Torval heard him chuckle
as he approached.
“Say, Lieutenant—”
“Yes—here I am.”
“One of those things that blew up in
the yard hit Holzhauser a good clip
below the knee. I put a bandage on it—
no bones smashed. But he can only
hobble around.” He laughed aloud. “He
looked like the safest man here, and he’s
the only one really hurt. We brought
out a bench from the dormitory for him
to sit on. You ought to go down and
have a look at him, Lieutenant, sitting
there with a crate full of grenades, like
he was selling eggs.”
Torval took the suggestion, spoke a
few words to the old fellow. Up on the
wall, he could hear the metallic sounds
as the coils of wire were loosened,
dumped on the dangerous side. The
64
pulley at the well creaked cheerfully;
men passed with full canvas buckets.
He struck his fist against the girl’s door.
“Jean,” he announced. He heard the
hinges creak, discerned her dimly in the
doorway: “It’s over for a few minutes.
Nobody’s badly hurt. Cigarette?” He
struck a match, held it for her. “Looks
as if we might make out all right.”
“How many did you kill ?”
“Don’t know. There must be fifteen
or twenty in the wire—some at the foot
of the wall. Counted nine or ten outside.”
“Thirty-five or forty.” She sighed,
and added with ruthless truth: “They
are more than one thousand.” Then,
without transition: “I have made tea.”
And she brought him a tin cup full of the
syrupy, mint-flavored fluid. “May I come
out, Jean ? It is hard in there, not know¬
ing, with all the shooting and yelling.”
“Holzhauser got hurt in the yard. Bet¬
ter stay in.”
He reached out in the darkness, pressed
her shoulder with his palm. Then he
went to the wireless-shack, found the
operator there before him.
“News?”
“I’m giving them a buzz, to find out if
anything was sent while I was on the
wall.” The Legionnaire took the slip
that Torval had just scribbled, a terse
official report of the first attack: “Right,
Lieutenant. I’ll send it.”
Then a few shots slapped out from the
wall, and the officer ran to the platform.
The Legionnaires were shooting at men
groaning in the wire. This appeared in¬
human, at first; but as they could not be
brought in, treated and held as prisoners,
it proved more merciful. These shots
brought more, from the skirmishers scat¬
tered in the open, hatching for targets.
“Three - fifty - one,” Charanov an¬
nounced. “They should try again soon,
as light starts at about five.”
When the wind dropped, the heat grew
suffocating, and the air was heavy with
odors. The cooling machine-gun on its
tripod, the piles of empty cartridges, ex¬
haled their reek of hot metal and burnt
powder. Smells drifted in from the out¬
side, human smells, of sweaty, unwashed
bodies. Somewhere a camel let loose its
hissing bellow; mules brayed.
“Reinforcements, Lieutenant,” Chara¬
nov opined. “Coming into the palm-
grove. If we only had a thirty-seven-
caliber cannon, we could—”
“Why not wish for a battalion of
Legion, while you’re at it?” Torval con¬
cluded lightly. They laughed together.
Then Torval called the men back to
stations. Thirty minutes had elapsed, and
if another attack was due tonight, it
must come soon. If they lived until day¬
light, they would be safe for a full day.
But neither held onto hope that the
natives had given their full measure.
The radio-operator came from below:
“Sent that report, Lieutenant. They
wanted to know why you signed it,
when Sergeant Charanov is supposedly
in charge.”
“Bah, let them worry.”
Torval had forgotten the small matter
that he had been displaced as command¬
er. There would be so many things to
straighten out—if and when!
“Here they come,” someone called out.
This time, the natives did not attempt
to avoid discovery; the rumor of their
advance was plain. Rifle-fire from the
outside broke out afresh, intense and bet¬
ter aimed than before. Many of the mis¬
siles smacked against the wall; many
others slashed at the level of the parapet.
The machine-gun opened fire; then,
one somewhat after the other, the auto¬
matics. The wire was being attacked in
a dozen spots at once, wooden uprights
broken, metal supports pulled from the
ground. The Saharans were howling en¬
couragement to each other, and even the
new coils they stumbled into at the bot¬
tom of the wall did not stop them. How
beings of flesh could flounder about
through the jagged spikes and keep to
one purpose was hard to understand.
But the scaling-poles jutted over the wall,
were propped in place; men started
swarming up the cross-cleats.
Legionnaires had to stop tossing gre¬
nades. They picked up the rifles and
fought with bayonet and butt, catching
the assailants before they gained a firm
footing, knocking them off balance. But
they were too few to guard every foot of
frontage; the enemy was probing, dis¬
covering safer spots.
“Keep your stations, keep your sta¬
tions—”
The combat was continued in the dark¬
ness, for Torval hesitated to illuminate
the crest of the wall, fearing that the
marksmen outside would shoot into the
struggling groups. There was a very
faint light, the dim glow of the stars, and
at close range it was possible to discern
friends from foes. But one group of at¬
tackers was no sooner disposed of than
another one bobbed elsewhere. Both
Charanov and the officer ran along the
footpath, a sort of a flying reserve, inter¬
vening with pistol and club.
“Watch your frontage—steady!”
The action split into separate factions
at four or five spots along the wall. The
three men guarding the north face were
forced to leave their assigned spots to
help.
During those desperate moments the
Legionnaires performed unrecorded feats
of strength and courage. They were
not working for medals or promotion, or
for the pride of their corps, but fighting
for their lives. The tribesmen, who
served both their racial hatred and their
masters, brought a long-pent-up savagery
to the engagement. It was seldom that
they had the chance to come so close.
“Watch your frontage—steady—”
The Legionnaires’ instinct was to
roup, to get back to back. Torval
new that this meant the finish, for the
attackers would overflow into the yard,
come up the stairways, be everywhere at
once. Luckily for the defenders, the na¬
tives could not know where and when
they had a genuine advantage, could not
profit by the temporary “holes” they
pierced.
The machine-gun’s crew and the auto¬
riflemen kept at their job. But there
was no knowing whether they were find¬
ing targets now. Torval made his way
back to the platform, groped for the
rocket-pistol on the lid of the ammuni¬
tion-coffer. As he leaned over, he was
struck in the side of the head, the blow
kindling whirling wheels of sputtering
flames in his brain.
He fell on all fours; men tumbled
across his back. His fingers caught on
a bare ankle. Hard heels beat against
his shoulder. He had to let go. New
cries were rising, howls of pain and terror.
Then, unexpectedly, there was silence.
A SECOND later he heard Sergeant
Chapuis’ voice, sobbing hysterically,
laughing and weeping at one time: “Eh
—eh! They tried to grab the machine-
gun! Eh—eh—did they jump!”
From the barrel, glowing red, spread a
stench of searing meat.
“Post One?” Charanov’s voice snapped
out.
“Present, Sergeant.”
The noncom checked off the posts,
then: “Holzhauser?”
“All well down here, Sergeant.”
“Where the hell did they go?” Chara¬
nov muttered. He was returning from
a swift inspection of the wall. He helped
Torval to his feet. The officer’s left cheek
ached, felt as large as a pumpkin. Blood
was dripping down his neck. A gash
stung high on his thigh. “Where the
hell are they?” the Sergeant repeated.
Then he added: “Some damage this time,
Lieutenant. Four missing.”
Four from thirty: Twenty-six!
N EVERTHELESS, Torval was re¬
lieved. He had believed that half his
men were down. Only two bodies were
located; the other two must have dropped
outside. Men were drinking from the
buckets, in long, audible gulps.
“Where did they go?” Torval said in
his turn.
The natives had fled from the wall,
had given up the attack. One moment,
there had been fifty of them so near to
success that they had left flesh roasting
on the machine-gun’s barrel. Then they
had melted into space.
They could not have gone very far,
that was sure. But they had granted
the defenders a tacit truce. A truce
which neither side seemed ready to break.
But Torval’s duty was to make sure.
He leaned over the parapet.
Fifteen feet from his face, a gun was
fired; the flash blinded him for an in¬
stant. He felt prickling burns digging
into his chin. Of course, they were down
below, hugging the bottom of the wall,
huddled helplessly against the bricks,
waiting, waiting for they knew not what.
They had been gripped by one of the
sudden panics that overcome the bravest
men at times.
And now they must be hopeless: While
in greater numbers, they had failed to
storm the wall. Why should they try
again ? And they did not dare dash into
the broken barbed wire. Nevertheless,
they must be driven out, away.
“Grenades,” Torval called.
He dropped the first. Then the ex¬
plosions crashed out all along the wall.
The cowed men dashed off, across the
network of wire, leaping and screaming.
The automatic weapons rattled into
them; the riflemen picked up their guns,
fired at maximum speed.
The last shadowy silhouette vanished
or lay still.
“That should hold them a while,”
Charanov expressed the general thought.
But he was wrong.
Before ten minutes had passed, the
sound of running men rose again. There
was no effort at concealment; solid waves
appeared in the open two hundred yards
away, heading straight into the machine-
gun bursts. The wire entanglement had
been wrecked in several places, and the
galloping men spouted into those lanes
slashed by the two preceding attacks.
The scaling-poles reappeared; the mad
scenes of a few minutes before were re¬
peated. One of the automatics, overheat¬
ed, jammed, and the machine-gun went
out of action for several seconds: Cha-
puis, who had been firing, had dropped
out with a shattered jaw.
The Lieutenant fired a rocket.
Tribesmen were spilling over the zone
where the wire had been, like a moving,
multicolored carpet. They trampled the
fallen in their eagerness to reach the
wall. It was a nightmare vision of mus¬
cular backs, shaven skulls, bristling steel,
with here and there an uplifted face,
contorted mouth, foamy beard:
“Ya, Rebbi!”
They were calling upon God. The
shout was a prayer and an imprecation,
an appeal for life and an acceptance of
death. The whole desert surged against
the strangers. Skilled preachers had
lashed these men for hours, reviling them
for their cowardliness, their helplessness
before a handful of the Roumi’s soldiers.
For the moment, they were hypnotized,
heedless of pain, danger and death.
Behind the first mass trotted another,
and a third behind that one—two, three,
four hundred men—
Five hundred and five hundred more!
Moulay was keeping his word.
B LAMENI might stand at dawn where
he had announced he would stand,
very close to the gateway. But those
inside would be dead. The young officer
realized that he had known from the
first that it was only a question of time,
provided Kaid Moulay was ready to sac¬
rifice enough lives. The affair had pro¬
gressed, he now understood, strictly
according to plan. The first two attacks
had been feelers, one to probe the re¬
sources of the defense, ascertain the play
of the automatic weapons; the next had
sought to destroy the wire in wide paths;
and this third one was to finish the task.
“Ya, Rebbi!”
The machine-gunners had swung the
muzzle of the weapon parallel to the wall,
and raked its length, hacking off the men
on the climbing-poles. But it was simply
a matter of two, three minutes, before
a group gained a foothold and came
rushing toward the platform. The young
officer hesitated for a moment longer.
Then he shouted to Charanov:
“Hold them back! I’m going below.”
He had often speculated, in the past,
on what his thoughts would be at this
precise moment. Other men had done
what he was about to do, many others.
And after the proper sequence of events,
it appeared the most normal, the least
melodramatic of incidents. There were
cases of rifles, cartridges and explosives
below. Long ago, long before he had
known Moulay except as one name in a
long list of regional chieftains, before he
had known that Louise existed, he had
made preparations.
It was fated that Kaid Moulay would
conquer this emplacement before morn¬
ing. Torval and his men had done what
was possible. Two or three lives had
paid for each one that would be lost.
Moulay would win himself a hole in the
ground, and nothing more.
As Torval ran down the stairway, his
mind was already detached from the
present, from the fierce tumult, the cries
and the shots. What remained to do was
very simple. A few quick strides across
the yard, the touching of a match’s flame
to the tip of a fuse. After that, it would
not be long—four or five seconds.
Perhaps he would have time to turn
around, to glance upward, to see the at¬
tackers flooding over the crest of the
wall. He would know that their triumph
was their doom; then all would be over.
T ORVAL pressed his palms against the
sand and tried to push himself erect.
But he fell flat again, and gasped with
pain. His lungs seemed to have con¬
tracted inside his chest; he was suffocat¬
ing. Before his eyes floated a reddish,
unreal mist. The last he remembered
was that a tremendous conflagration had
overwhelmed him, that he had been lifted
from the ground. That had been hours
ago, an endless stretch of dark time.
Then he became aware of many impacts,
as if solid objects were raining down all
about him. Debris, falling back out of
the sky. ...
Therefore it had been seconds, not
hours. He had exploded the magazine,
blown up the Post—and he was still
alive! Brusquely his thoughts shaped
clearly: No, he had not reached the fuse
—he had been in the yard when the con¬
flagration had come. And through that
persisting red haze, he saw the outline of
the nearest building, straight, unbroken,
against the paling sky. He had not done
what he had come to do. What had hap¬
pened ?
He gained his feet, unsteadily, reeled
two or three steps. He felt that he had
to clutch at his reason, to hold on to each
thought. He had started to blow up the
Post. There had been an explosion,
which he had not caused. He must carry
out that intention now.
But what did this sudden, complete
stillness mean? For an instant, the
thought that he had died, that this was
after, stirred an odd form of terror in his
brain—a fear that he was alone, alone!
But the debris which had thumped down
around him was real enough. He turned
with an effort, looked up at the crest of
the wall. Silhouettes were stirring up
there, against the growing light. For day
was breaking, as if that formidable blast
had shaken the very sun from behind the
horizon.
A man came down the stairway from
the platform, teeth shining whitely in a
brown, dusty mask—a Legionnaire, in a
shredded tunic bloodstained at the shoul¬
der. And this apparition spoke, spoke
with Charanov’s voice.
“What happened, Lieutenant?” and he
stared from Torval’s face to the build¬
ings a few feet behind him, the buildings
that were intact.
“I don’t know, Charanov. I started
down to—”
“I know. Then everything blew up.
I thought—”
“Where are they?”
“Those that could ran away, Lieuten¬
ant. I don’t understand it. One mo¬
ment, they were here—and—” Charanov
rambled on, repeating the same sentences
over and over, in a flat, mechanical voice,
like that from a phonograph record when
the needle sticks. Shock, that was it.
“Those that could, ran away, Lieutenant.
I don’t understand it—”
Torval limped back up the stairs. On
the platform, dazed men stared at him,
unbelievingly. He looked over the wall,
saw a great patch of yellowish, fresh
sand, from which jutted bits of wood,
twisting wire, boulders.
Beyond was the slope, the open ground
as far as the palm-grove, with a few
bodies scattered about. Nothing moved.
The living were out of sight. The sun
was coming up. A day was gained.
“The roll, Chapuis,” he said.
“Sergeant Chapuis’s badly hurt, Lieu¬
tenant,” a corporal said. He shouted
the names, and nineteen men answered.
With Torval and Charanov, that meant
twenty-one survivors, twenty-one com¬
paratively valid men. Seven dead during
the night, with Sergeant Chapuis and an¬
other man too badly injured to stand.
N OW Torval was recovering rapidly.
He gave the necessary instructions;
the cooks went downstairs to make cof¬
fee. Everyone went back to routine
chores, a bit unbelievingly. Men moved
about, lifting bodies and disposing of
them over the parapet. What was the
purpose of burying a few, with so many
outside ? Only one difference was made:
The natives were thrown over; the Leg¬
ionnaires lowered carefully, assembled in
one spot. If there was a chance, later,
they would be honored according to tra¬
dition.
“Try to find out what caused that ex¬
plosion,” Torval ordered Charanov. “I’m
going down to the ambulance-room.”
The pharmacist-corporal sterilized in¬
struments, and the officer set to work.
The hardest job was Chapuis’ wound.
But within the next hour, practically
every man dropped in, to have cuts
washed out, painted and bandaged. Most
\
of the wounds were on the arms and
shoulders, a few in the face. The lower
part of the Legionnaires’ bodies had been
protected by the parapet.
The sun was growing hot when Chara-
nov arrived, holding little Heinrich by
the arm.
“Go on, go on, tell the Lieutenant all
about it—what you told me.” The Ser¬
geant looked at Torval, winked: “He’s
the guy who did that fine mess.”
The young soldier seemed on the verge
of tears. Other men were hanging about
the infirmary, trying to listen. Torval
washed his hands and led the way to the
office. The place was very quiet, and the
slanting sun shot long rays between the
slats of the blinds, rays in which the dust
danced and swirled in a luminous fantasy.
“You know about the explosion, Le¬
gionnaire Buschjost? Speak.”
70
“It was this way, Lieutenant,” the lad
started, standing at attention: “When
I was magazine guard, I swiped some
cartridges of dynamite. See, I had read
in a book about safe-crackers in Amer¬
ica cooking the stuff for nitroglycerin.
This stuff we use is special for tropical
use, and not awfully strong. I used the
alcohol-burner in the pharmacy for it—”
Torval felt the skin of his scalp tight¬
en: This chap had been experimenting
with explosives, right in the Post!
“Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”
“Oh, no, Lieutenant. The stuff melts
at eight centigrade, all right, but it won’t
blow up from heat until one hundred and
eighty. That’s almost twice the boiling
point, you know, and I kept water at the
same heat on the other burner. I’d turn
everything off when the water started to
simmer. No danger at all, Lieutenant.”
“You amaze me, Buschjost. Go on.”
Legionnaires picked up the rifles and
fought with bayonet and butt . . .
fighting for their Uves.
“Well, Lieutenant, I kept pouring the
stuff easy into a bottle, an old anisette
bottle. I had about this much—” he in¬
dicated with his fingers. “Oh, I knew
it would go off, so I was very careful,
ou know, not to leave it where it could
e knocked around.”
“Why did you want that stuff, Legion¬
naire?”
“I can’t quite say, Lieutenant. I liked
to look at it, and know that if I just
dropped it, that stuff that looked like
weak lemon extract could blow the whole
dump up.”
“Gave him a sense of power, he means,
Lieutenant,” Charanov declared. “He’s
a little Fritz, you know.”
“Then I got some stuff out of a signal
rocket, Lieutenant. And I rolled some
of it in a paper, and floated it in the glyc¬
erine. I kept wondering, you know, if
it would make a big red flash when it went
off. I thought I might try it out some
day, on patrol, tossing it down a cliff
71
somewhere. But I was sort of worried
about putting that bottle in my pack,
what with the heat from the sun. So I
never got around to it. I kept a wooden
box over it, with damp cloth inside, un¬
der my cot. Treated it the way we treat
the stuff in the magazine, see. Then I
got scared of it, and wanted to get rid of
it, and didn’t know how to do that.”
“Yes, it was something of a problem,”
Torval conceded.
“Sometimes,” little Heinrich admitted
courageously, “I’d get almost wild, when
the chaps in the barracks horseplayed and
wrestled, and got too near my box. Then
this business started, and I thought I
could throw it outside, like a grenade.
But I thought, too, that maybe it would
make a lot more noise and that I’d get
caught. But, this morning, when you
started down the stairs, I knew what you
intended to do. So I thought there’d be
no harm, as long as we were going to go
up anyway, in seeing about that red col¬
or.” The young Legionnaire shrugged
slightly as he added:
“It wasn’t as bright as I expected.”
T ORVAL looked at the young fellow
with mingled anger and admiration.
Heinrich had been doing his job, like the
others, fighting off attackers on the wall.
But his mind had been clear enough to
remember his bottle—safe under its wood¬
en box—his curiosity powerful enough to
make him wish to test his theory—with
ten seconds of life remaining!
Moreover, from his proper station, sev¬
eral yards away from the platform, with
armed Saharans hacking up at him, he
had contrived to note, despite the poor
light, that his chief was leaving for the
yard, and to grasp at once what the pur¬
pose was.
“How old are you, Heinrich Busch-
jost?”
“I enlisted at eighteen. I’m almost
twenty-one, Lieutenant.”
“Your real age ? In confidence.”
“Eighteen in October, Lieutenant.”
The officer brought out a small book,
consulted it.
“Theft of Government property: Five
years. Tampering with government prop¬
erty: Five years.” Torval looked up at
the Legionnaire. Little Heitirich Was
growing very pale. He had not been
afraid of death, but court-martial fright¬
ened him. “Not to mention misuse of
Government ammunition, endangering
the common safety in a military outpost,
use of explosives without orders or proper
qualifications. Let’s say they’ll run some
of the charges together. You still can
look for fifteen years in prison camp.
Nothing to worry about; you’ll be back
in the Legion before you’re thirty-five.”
He closed the book.
Heinrich Buschjost was scared but in¬
dignant.
“But, Lieutenant, everything was go¬
ing to go up! That’s what the natives
thought, I’ll bet, that the magazine had
started to go, and that there would be
a bigger explosion.” He sputtered: “And
—and you—Lieutenant—you were going
to blow up the dump, anyway!”
“Something in that,” Torval admitted.
“Can you keep your mouth shut, Busch¬
jost ?”
“Oh, yes, Lieutenant.”
“All right.... Sergeant Loffheim was
killed, Chapuis disabled. I’ll have to pro¬
mote two corporals to sergeants. And
two privates to corporals. You’re one of
them. And I’ll send in a citation for
you, something about your contributing
to the saving of the Post.” Torval rose
and offered his hand. “But you promise
me not to make any more experiments
in chemistry here, artd not to blow about
what you did—I’d get into hot water for
not reporting you.”
Heinrich shook the hand warmly.
“It’s a promise, Lieutenant. You have
enough trouble coming as it is.” He hesi¬
tated, then added shrewdly: “Maybe
Sergeant Charanov had better sign the
citation too?”
“Understood. Dismissed.” When the
Legionnaire had saluted and left, Torval
turned to Charanov with a wry smile:
“That little square-head never loses sight
of anything, does he? Just the same, but
for him, we’d all have blown up an hour
or two ago.”
“What’s postponed isn’t necessarily
lost, Lieutenant,” Charanov remarked,
with a skeptical smile: “This morning or
tonight, what matters?”
Torval shrugged and went to his room.
The girl was seated on his couch. She
had assembled another phenomenal cos¬
tume out of the feminine garments left
by Kheira and masculine garments lo¬
cated in the officer’s trunk. But what
Would have been ridiculous on most wom¬
en contrived to appear charming on her.
S HE cried out when he came in. And
when he looked into the mirror he
understood her alarm. His face was a
mask of dirt, his chin covered by a blood¬
stained crust.
Torval reassured her briefly, and talked
to her as he cleaned up.
She explained that the door had blown
in at the time of the explosion, the forged-
iron sockets torn right out of the walls.
Yes, she had been frightened then, and
before, also, when she had heard the war
cries of Moulay’s ouled el qelt. What
were those? They were like the Legion¬
naires of the other side: picked men from
various tribes, usually sent in at the last.
“By the way,” Torval asked, as he ap¬
plied a strip of tape over the cut on his
face: “what’s your name? All right, all
right, you’re French, real French! But
you’re not Louise Sauvain. I can’t call
you that. Are you Zaya?”
“That’s my name, yes, among our peo¬
ple. But not my French name.”
“And what is your French name?”
“It means nothing. Call me Zaya.”
I N vain Torval pressed her for more de¬
tails. He was coming to understand
that Zaya, as he was to call her, had a
remarkable ability to keep silent on the
topics she selected. But he nevertheless
found conversation with her entertaining.
One thing was certain, she did not utter
the banalities conventional among French
girls. She did not admire at length the
work of the latest literary idol. She had
never met a tennis champion, a great ac-
I tor, and she sincerely regarded a lieuten¬
ant of Legion as an important person.
He knew that the work he had ordered
done would be carried on without his su¬
pervision: His men were Legionnaires.
He knew that if anything unusual oc¬
curred, he would be called. So he sat
with her, and they brewed thick coffee
on his heater, smoked cigarettes, chatted.
She found an illustrated magazine with
advertisements for women’s clothes, and
asked him a hundred questions.
“What is that for? How do you put
it on?” Once she startled him with a
pertinent question: “What is bad taste?”
having picked out the phrase from one
of his explanations. “Is what I am wear¬
ing bad taste, Jean ?”
“Not at all. It’s—well, it’s individual,
original.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Suits your personality—the way you
look—”
He talked on. . . .
Outside, in the shambles of the wire-
maze, dead bodies were offered to the
sun. Not forty feet away, Chapuis was
sucking, through a glass pipe, beef tea
made with cubes, while some hundreds
of yards farther, riflemen sprawled on the
hot sand, nursing rifle-stocks to their
cheeks, their eyes on the gutted post.
From the north and the east, still five
or six days away, military units were ap¬
proaching. And to replace these forces
in the places they had left, companies,
squadrons, battalions, were on the march,
on motor-trucks, in trains, rushing south¬
ward. To replace these in turn, drafts
were moving nearer the Sahara from Al¬
gerian garrisons.
While in this narrow room, decorated
with queerly shaped weapons, hung with
blue and white Soudanese drapes, a young
lieutenant explained patiently the differ¬
ence between bad taste and originality,
in the matter of feminine dress, to a beau¬
tiful girl listening, lips parted in avid at¬
tention, seated cross-legged against the
wall, holding a bare foot in both hands.
For when Zaya became interested, ani¬
mated, she relaxed and showed the lack
of self-consciousness, the suppleness of a
Saharan woman. She would have much
to learn before she could mix with Eu¬
ropean people without attracting atten¬
tion. In Torval, as in most men, there
lurked an unsuspected educator. And to
only a few men has it ever been granted
to be considered an absolute authority on
any subject that was discussed.
“Sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant,”
Charanov stood in the door. He looked
from Zaya to Torval, and when the Lieu¬
tenant nodded that he might speak, he
went on casually: “Some women and a
few kids are crawling around, pulling in
the dead. Didn’t want to order the men
to shoot without asking you.”
“Don’t bother them as long as they
don’t cotoe too close. As long as they’re
in sight, the others won’t shoot.”
“That’s what I thought,” Charanov
agreed. “I sent a party out to string
wire across that pit the nitro dug. There
are planes coming up. Should I put Out
signal panels?”
“No need. They have our wireless re¬
port.” Torval rose; but as Zaya was
about to follow him: “Better not show
yourself on the wall. Some of those
prowlers are spies, and one of them might
recognize you and shoot at you.”
He was satisfied to find that the dam¬
age had not been considerable. Part Of
the nearer wall surface had crumbled.
Three men were repairing it, and others
were stretching glittering new wire. In
the distance, groups of women and old
men, with a few small children, wandered
about. This was not an unusual sight
after an encounter. Torval had seen it
several times in Morocco: Moslems try¬
ing to locate their dead. When they drew
too near, a single shout would drive them
away again.
O THER visitors arrived, identified
themselves and were permitted
near: Old women from the little Haratin
village beyond the palm grove, coming to
offer eggs, chickens and fruit for sale, as
if nothing extraordinary were going on.
The natives had allowed them to pass
freely, they reported. There were many,
many of them.
“The gullies are crowded,” one of the
crones declared. “Be careful. They say
they cut your throats tonight, sure.”
The throbbing of the motors had
swelled to a roar, and three planes surged
out of the northeast. They swooped low
over the Post; the aviators could be seen
waving their hands. Then they rose
again, circled widely over the vast pla¬
teau, like circus-perfortaers on parade,
and set to work.
Small bombs dropped from beneath
the fuselage, glistening in the sun like
metallic flakes. After a series of explo¬
sions, the machines would swoop lower,
and the coppery explosions of their heavy
toachine-guns hammered impressively.
The theory was that the bombs, which
knocked up geysers of sand and pebbles,
and left great clouds of yellow smoke and
dust, were to flush the game from cover,
as targets for the bullets.
But to anyone who had served as an
observer on a plane in the Sahara, results
seemed doubtful. Aviation, a. splendid
weapon against visible, permanent struc¬
tures and masses of troops forced to keep
on roads, is not very effective against
Saharans. The tribesmen have practiced
camouflage from time immemorial, and
for them it Was a simple matter to move
into patches of shadow, where they could
not be spotted from on high.
The pilots had definite instructions not
to fly too low. To a desert marksman, a
plane was just like an enormous bird, and
most of those primitive riflemen could
drop a pigeon on the wing with a solid
ball. Losing a machine Worth several
hundred thousand francs because of a
cartridge worth fifty centimes would have
been poor business.
Through the field-glasses, Torval saw
one of these attacks on a fairly numerous
party of men and animals, crossing the
plateau some three miles away. The al¬
most indistinct lines separated, spilled
into scarcely visible blurred dots. The
explosions of bombs dotted the soil in a
straight line; the machines circled for
five minutes. It seemed, for a moment,
as if the whole bunch of tribesmen had
been wiped out. But When the planes
went elsewhere, everything was on the
move again. Possibly, two or three pack-
camels had been killed, too stupid to
crouch when the bombs struck.
There was another fine display over the
palm-grove. When the explosives struck
the shallow pond there, spectacular spouts
were kicked up above the leafage. With¬
in the Post, the Legionnaires followed the
air raid with many amused comments and
shouts of glee. They quoted over and
over again the famous remark of a native
questioned by an aviator, at the end of
a Moroccan campaign. The pilot, indi¬
cating a bombing-machine, asked: “And,
Akli, do you know what that is? Did
you see any during the fighting?”
“Sure,” the Moor retorted: “That’s
flying-machine. Make much noise, kill
nobody.”
Charanov watched the performance, a
cigarette in the corner of his lips, hands
in his breeches pockets: “The natives
have camouflaged their main camp, sand-
colored tents, and all that. I’d sooner
see a detachment of the Erfoud Company
of Legion shoving into sight than fifty
of those damn’ crates.” He sighed, con¬
cluding: “Well, they’ll get us tonight.”
Torval nodded.
“They should. We haven’t enough men
left. Even if we made another nitro
bomb, they wouldn’t be fooled again.
They thought the whole Post was go¬
ing up—and ran. Tonight, they’ll stick.
Well, nothing to do except wait.”
The planes had circled once more and
were passing above the post in a triumph¬
ant procession. And on the roof of the
storehouse, outlined in signal panels, two
Legionnaires had marked an enormous
O, which the aviators must translate
easily as “ Result, Zero.” They hopped
about, and made derisive gestures. Tor¬
val ordered the sign removed, but uttered
no word of blame. Why not let them
have their fun? They would be paying
dear for it all too soon.
The machines sped away, vanished.
A S the crushing heat of noon settled
. down, the stench grew very strong.
| Although vultures were seldom seen in
| the vicinity, they must have followed the
native caravans, for they appeared in
large numbers. The siesta period dragged
by, a somnolent space ticked off by the
pacing of sentries.
The planes reappeared at two-thirty.
This time they flew lower, were more
persistent. Many rifles greeted them
from below. For long minutes, the bomb
explosions broke out at intervals, and the
sharp sputter of the big machine-guns.
But they were bombarding emptiness, or
scattered individuals. Undoubtedly they
killed a few people, but rather by chance.
This time they did not fly over the Post
in farewell, but made off without fuss and
throbbed away in the glare.
An official wireless message, marked
“ Three-forty-two asked for whatever
information was available as to exact
location of main body of besiegers, and
praised the “valiant garrison of Moziba.”
It also asked for an hourly report on the
general situation of the defenders, spoke
of help on the way.
Torval noted that one thing had been
conceded: The message was addressed to
“the Commander,” without specifying
names. Of course, with all Saharan posts
listening in, the military authorities could
not rant at long range because its instruc¬
tions were ignored. But the young lieu¬
tenant knew he would have stern ques¬
tioning to answer—if he lived.
It was almost four o’clock when one o£
the sentries called down from the wall
that he was being hailed from below.
The Lieutenant went to investigate, and
found that the voice came from the north¬
ern side.
Upon Torval’s promise not to shoot,
a man appeared over the rim of the de¬
clivity, followed the wire until he reached
a broken spot, and came to the foot of
the wall.
He was a broad-shouldered, rather
heavily built man of fifty-five or six,
garbed in a blue gandoura caught in at
the waist by strap of tressed leather from
which hung a long knife in a silver scab¬
bard. The top of his skull was bare, but
a dingy white turban was twisted around
his head at the temples.
“Art thou the chief ?” the fellow called
in Arabic.
“No other. Who art thou?”
“Thy friend. An ex-soldier. Lower
a rope and haul me in.” He touched his
knife: “I have no other weapon. You
need not fear me.”
The rope was lowered, a man standing
by with his rifle at the ready. When the
stranger stood before Torval, the lieu¬
tenant saw a rather short fellow, not
more than five feet six or seven, a rather
handsome man. From his blue eyes, Tor¬
val believed him to be an Algerian Kou-
logli, for many of them inherit such eyes
from Circassian women brought to Bar¬
bary as slaves.
“Let me not remain in sight long, Lord
Lieutenant,” he requested. “Even at this
long distance, keen eyes might identify
me. I am known to many.”
T ORVAL took him to the office, offered
him hot tea and a cigarette. The man
sat on the floor, calm, at ease, and some¬
thing in his round, tanned face, fringed
with graying chestnut beard, inspired
confidence.
After leisurely sipping his tea, the man
began to speak.
75
“My name is Yusuf M’safer. I come
from Tafilalet. If you use the radio, you
will learn that the captain in charge of
the Native Intelligence Office at B&har
knows my name. I came here with Kaid
Moulay, as many of my tribe did. But
I know what others may not, that this is
a foolish venture that cannot succeed for
long. I have served the French; I am
serving them still.”
“What do you want?” Torval asked.
“In due time! It was hard for me to
come, for the people searching for their
dead grew fewer. It may be that I came
too late, and that the flying-machines
cannot work any more before dark. I
came to say, Lord Lieutenant, that we in
the Sahara have a proverb that he who
holds the Saharan must hold him by the
belly.”
“Which means ?”
“Food or drink, Lord Lieutenant.
Kaid Moulay has many people here,
many camels, many horses, all thirsting.
Thou dost know that the water in the
pond cannot be used, as it gives beasts
colic and men fever. The water is
brought from two wells, and must be
brought often. Waiting in the heat, wa¬
ter goes very fast, and for so many, much
must be brought. The planes should
bombard those wells.”
“We know that,” Torval nodded. “But
Yusuf, the French cannot destroy all the
wells. Some are used for our allies. And
who knows which wells are used, where
they are located ? In machines flying as
far in one hour as a camel goes in ten
days, can a man be sure of his goal?”
“I know the wells, can give landmarks.
Show me the charts.” Yusuf paused,
half-smiled. “But first, a promise: Thou
wilt make a writing for me, saying I gave
the information, that I may be paid?”
“Promised.” Torval unrolled the large-
scale regional maps supplied by the Army
Geographic Service. Like many natives
—the Arabs claim to have invented map¬
ping—Yusuf could read maps easily. He
asked some questions about relative dis¬
tances, then spoke: “This one, and this
other. Even if the bombs do not strike
squarely, the shafts are sunk through
sand, and the explosions will fill the bot¬
toms. It will take days of labor to clear
them out again.”
H E waited while Torval dictated the
message to the radio-man. Then he
continued:
“When the news comes to the bands
that the water-holes are stopped up, they
will fear. Many of them already regret
the attack, despite Kaid Moulay’s bold
words, and deem so many lives too much
for the guns and cartridges to be taken.”
The Lieutenant was interested.
“Is that what your people have been
told? Nothing about a woman?”
Yusuf shrugged.
“Zaya, daughter of El Tobbal? Oh,
indeed, all know about her. But that is
the pretext. The real purpose is to get
many guns for what is to come. The tak¬
ing of towns, the loot. Some of us doubt
that Zaya is here at all.”
“Dost thou know her?”
“Very well indeed. I am of the Ait-bu-
Khatras by my mother’s blood, and
among them her father has influence.”
“Is she French?”
“Many claim El Tobbal was French.
He came among us many years ago, from
Morocco. The girl was very small. Not
yet walking?’
ORVAL was puzzled.
“If he were French, why wouldn’t our
agents know of it?”
“They might know and not speak.”
Yusuf grinned. “Life is precious. And
a European doesn’t live among us with¬
out reason.”
“He hides? He must have committed
a crime.”
“I have not said he was French; I
have not said he hid.” Yusuf gestured
quietly. “As for a crime, he may have
killed, which is ever a crime among you.
But not always with us.” He accepted
another cigarette, and spoke on casual
subjects.
“I must remain here now until dark,
Lord Lieutenant. It was difficult to come
in daylight, but after nightfall, it will be
child’s play for one who speaks per¬
fect Arabic—not for such as thee. One
has but to slide down the northern in¬
cline, crawl for a long while on all fours,
then mingle with those who will be
swarming near to take part in the shoot¬
ing. There are so many people here—
more than one thousand warriors, and
many of those, being nomads, brought
their families. So how can all know all
by sight or name ?”
Torval sipped at his glass of tea, strong¬
ly laced with cognac. He thought that
the native had not spoken without sig¬
nificant intention.
“Thou couldst then take someone with
thee? One who spoke Arabic as well,
dressed like one of thy people?”
Yusuf laughed, showing yellow teeth.
“May I come out, Jean? It Is hard in there,
not knowing, with all the shooting and yelling.”
“Zaya bent el Tobbal, perhaps, Lord
Lieutenant?”
"Yes.”
“With ease—if she would trust her¬
self to me. Near the grove, there is a
place Where many women are gathered,
where one more would not be noticed.
The Raid’s camp is far from there. We
would rest until morning, then start off
again, toward the French. I can leave
without being suspected, as I am wounded
already.” Yusuf lifted the gandoura,
showing a large, dirty bandage around
his right knee. “I Was on the firing-line,
during the night.”
“Thou wouldst consent to take her?”
“For a price—I gamble my head.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand francs.”
“Five thousand?” Torval nodded—for
What did money matter to him now?
“Dost thou know what a note is ? I shall
sign a paper, Which my bankers will pay
if the conditions mentioned are fulfilled.
If Zaya is delivered to the French at
Bechar, alive and well, five thousand
francs shall be paid thee. The mark of
her thumb on that paper will prevent
substitution. But what guarantee have
I that thou wilt not surrender her to Raid
Moulay for that same sum, paid at once
into thy hands?”
“Only this, Lord Lieutenant: I should
have to inform him that I came here—
and when the bombs fall where they will
do much harm, my head shall be struck
off.”
“Suppose he sent thee here?”
n
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Why? Kaid Moulay is not a French¬
man; he is no longer young. Would he
think that thou wouldst send the girl
away, when thou art thyself to die? Is
it reasonable for one man to save a beau¬
tiful girl that she may find another man
later?” Yusuf gestured. “Ask the girl,
let her see me. If she doesn’t trust me,
all is finished, and I leave alone.”
“Oh, she knows thee?”
“I have told thee I knew her. In the
past, I was caravan-leader for her father.
But tell her I am the man who brought
her the French doll from Meknes.”
T ORVAL left the room. He found
Zaya listening to the phonograph in
his room. He stopped the machine.
“Do you know Yusuf el M’safer?” he
asked.
“Yes, Jean.”
“Who is he?”
“A strange man. He worked for my
father. Then he left us, and people said
he had been a French agent.”
“Did he bring you a French doll from
Meknes?”
“From Meknes?” Zaya stared at Tor-
val, bewildered. Then she nodded, a
hand pressed over her mouth.
“Well, he is here.” He looked at Zaya
searchingly: “Can he be trusted ?”
“Yes. With my life, Jean.”
“With your life, that’s just it.” He
went back to the office without saying
more. The wireless-operator was there,
with a reply to the last message.
The man named, Bechar Headquarters
confirmed, was an agent attached to the
Bou-Denib Native Bureaux, at present
believed to be in Tafilalet. His presence
at Moziba was surprising, as he had a
special mission. However, he could be
trusted. Information was being checked
on the maps, all necessary measures
would be taken. Charanov, who had
helped with the decoding, was also pres¬
ent. He nodded understanding, as Tor-
val explained.
“But about the girl leaving here, Lieu¬
tenant,” he said, “there’s one strong ob¬
jection—”
“What?”
“Suppose this man does take her to
Bechar. Suppose they want to negotiate
with Moulay ? After all, she’s the official
reason for this mess, and worth nothing
to the Government. There’s no more
proof that she is French than when she
came here, you know. Her unsupported
word. If she is a native, that dowry pay¬
ment of Moulay’s binds her as his wife.”
“You’re right!” Torval drummed on
the table with his fingers. “And we can’t
get around that. She might be sacrificed
to obtain a quick settlement of this row,
the more readily because she would be
blamed for what happened here, and it
would give chaps who tried what I did a
good lesson.” He grumbled his discour¬
agement : “And there’s no way of proving
her French. No way of making her what
she isn’t.”
“Wah, el zouaj” said Yusuf, from his
place on the floor.
“He says marriage, Lieutenant,” Char¬
anov exclaimed. “He’s right.”
“True, true.” The young officer looked
at Yusuf with close attention. “With the
few exceptions where it conflicts with the
laws of other nations and the woman
makes a demand to keep her original
status, the wife takes the nationality of
the husband at marriage.” Torval burst
into nervous laughter: “That would be
something to put over on them! Here
is Zaya, but she is a French lady in good
standing—behold the certificate! I’d do
it, in a minute,”—he shrugged—“but un¬
fortunately, I can’t play that last prank,
Charanov. I need permission from my
army commander, and from my parents.
There are the bans, the legal delays. And
nobody here to do it! ”
Charanov smiled.
“I bet you it could be done. If I were
French, I’d show you. But I’m a Rus¬
sian, and I am married already. Twice:
Left a wife in the Crimea, another in
Bougie. That last one would make me a
bigamist, as the marriage was in Tunisia.
But if you really want to leave a widow
—by Jove, they’d have to pay her a pen¬
sion!—just send for Legionnaire Bri-
chaux.”
“What can he do ?”
“I don’t know if he ever was a lawyer,
as he claims, Lieutenant. But I do know
that three times he extricated himself
from serious messes before court-mar¬
tials, pulling some very clever stuff—”
Torval frowned in perplexity.
“But we have no civic official, no
priest—”
“Try him!” Charanov was laughing.
“It’s worth the time, just as a joke. Tell
him: ‘Brichaux, I want to marry Zaya
legally, officially.’ I bet you one hundred
francs to fifty that he finds a way.”
"MOSLEM weddings are legal, Lord
1V1 Lieutenant,” Yusuf suddenly of¬
fered. “They have to be accepted as
such, for inheritance, legitimacy and—”
LADY OF THE LEGION
“Yes, my friend, when both parties are
natives. Not otherwise. Get Brichaux,
will you, please?” And when Charanov
had left, the officer turned to Yusuf:
“You understand French well. Where
did you learn it?”
“I, Lord Lieutenant?” Yusuf smiled:
“I told thee I was an ex-soldier. Seven
years in the tirailleurs. I could speak it
well, too—but it has been thirty-two
years since I was discharged. I have for¬
gotten much.”
B RICHAUX arrived, led by the ser¬
geant. He was a tall, graying man
in the forties, with a long, clownish face.
He had been working and reported nude
to the waist, revealing a torso illuminated
with curious tattooings. If he had been
a professional man, he did not show it
outwardly.
But he listened attentively to the Lieu¬
tenant, wrinkling his brows.
“Well, it’s this way, Lieutenant,” he
replied in a deep, booming voice: “You
can’t really get a legal marriage out here
right away. Wait a minute! You can’t
get a legal marriage, no; but you can get
one that will look legal, with a lot of
legal-looking papers, certificates, affida¬
vits. Court procedure will have to be
gone through to prove It illegal. That
takes months.
“When I was in the pioneer company,
drying the big marshes at Perregaux, we
had a sergeant who fell in love with a lo¬
cal girl. I fixed up a marriage, because
her people did not want a Legionnaire in
the family. Well, the thing grew so com¬
plicated in the courts that the family
gave in and consented to a regular cere¬
mony. I’ll look up the case in my library,
Lieutenant, and be back in twenty min¬
utes.”
“Your library, Legionnaire?”
“My pocket-codes, Lieutenant. Giv¬
ing legal advice is my private racket.
You’d be surprised how often I can pick
up a little dough on the side.”
“There’s two hundred francs for you
if you do it,” Torval promised, taking the
hint.
“You’re as good as married, Lieuten¬
ant!” the Legionnaire assured him.
Very soon Brichaux was back, wear¬
ing a freshly laundered tunic, buttons
gleaming. He laid a dozen small books
with red covers on the office table. There
were slips of paper to mark the relevant
pages.
He cleared his throat, and started to
speak in a loud voice, as if lecturing.
“A commander of a Military Post in
what is termed ‘a zone of Exterior Oper¬
ations,’ Lieutenant, which includes Mo¬
rocco, the Near East and the Occidental
Saharan Territories, where we are now
located, may be called a civic official de
facto. Article X, Second Paragraph of
Item 125, Manual for Overseas Troops,
makes it clear that he is a chief of police
for the region protected by his Post.
That is important; remember it, please.
“In the absence of a doctor, he delivers
death- and birth-certificates, as you will
know. That is a tacit delegation of civic
power, which should create a precedent
for a marriage. For in the absence of a
mayor, the said Post Commander can as¬
sume that he may act as one, just as he
acts as coroner and registrar. See Decree
of October 23rd, 1903. Also decision of
April 4th, 1910, concerning the power of
Post Commanders to issue such docu¬
ments.”
Brichaux handed over a book and two
pamphlets, with slips of paper marking
places where these decisions were cited.
“Now, we all know the legal formali¬
ties surrounding a marriage according to
French law, and the formalities expected
of an army officer who desires to take
unto himself a wife. But there is Article
169, Law of June 21st, 1907, which reads:
‘The Government Attorney (Procureur
de la Rfyublique) in whose jurisdiction
the marriage is to be performed, is em¬
powered, for serious reasons, to dispense
with all publication and all delays.’
“Now, Lieutenant, the Government At¬
torney is called in criminal matters;
there is a decree placing you at the head
of the investigation of a crime in your
territory, so that you are acting quite
legally as Government Attorney for this
Post. You can evoke serious reasons why
all publications, bans and delays should
be forgotten: There is no time to wait,
as we shall be dead tomorrow morning.
I have never heard of a more serious
reason.”
Brichaux paused, looked up from the
Code, stared at Torval.
“By the way, Lieutenant, under the
circumstances, what use will those two
hundred francs be to me?”
INVOLUNTARILY, the three men who
1 heard him started to laugh, and the
Legionnaire laughed himself, before long.
“So, Lieutenant, you see: Nothing to
it but to make up a series of affidavits,
quoting the laws, decrees, articles. I can
supply the legal blanks for them, com-
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
plete with Government seals, at a slight
increase over cost price. Always have a
small stock. And you can use the Post’s
official stamp over your signature and
the others. I think about four of them,
beside the certificate proving marriage,
will do the trick. They’ll see there’s some¬
thing phony, but it will hold them for a
while. A month here, two there, three
elsewhere. And until Madame Torval is
proved not Madame Torval, she must be
treated as Madame Torval. By that
time, Madame Torval will be in Oran, or
even in France, to be at the proper
tribunal; and if anybody tries to ship
her back to the Sahara, to be turned over
to an old bicot of a Raid, what a fine
howl there will be!”
C HARANOV and Torval consulted the
passages marked. The trick would
be patent and the evasion plain—but law
is law.
Moreover, he could send a letter to his
father, to be mailed by Yusuf in Bechar,
explaining the situation, and asking for
his help for Zaya. Torval Senior, who
would have moved heaven and earth to
prevent the marriage while his son was
alive, would wish to carry out the last
request of that son.
Another angle occurred to Torval.
“But, Brichaux, who can perform the
ceremony? I can’t well marry myself.”
“Well, Charanov here, officially in com¬
mand, has to make an affidavit that he
had turned back command to you, so that
the whole thing won’t go flat because he
is a Russian, a foreigner, and the law
foresees a Frenchman in command. But
you can make another affidavit, as soon
as you have signed the necessary papers,
turning command back to him. Then he
can act as civic official. And Article 170
states clearly—look at'it—that a marriage
contracted by a Frenchman anywhere
according to the ritual accepted where he
is, is valid. To make sure, you better
have a religious ceremony also. There’s a
Hungarian, Vergak, who can do it. He
was ordained. And he must be in good
standing, for the chaplain, who must
know all about his past, lets him officiate
sometimes.”
Torval smiled skeptically. Partici¬
pants, official, witnesses and even priest,
his marriage could never be called com¬
monplace. The bride-to-be was not even
informed I
He sent for her. There was a short
wait; and Brichaux, seated at the table,
set to work. He wrote with amazing
speed, ruled lines with the ebony rule,
reached out for this seal and that rubber
stamp with all the importance and ac¬
tivity of an amateur performing on the
musical glasses.
"/GREETINGS and peace on thee,
VJ daughter of el Tobbal.”
“Greetings and salvation on thee, Yu¬
suf the Traveler.”
Zaya and the native looked at each
other for a second; then started the long
list of questions customary among polite
people, concerning relatives and friends.
Brichaux pushed out sheets of paper,
with brisk advice: “This one’s signed by
the Lieutenant, this one by him and
Charanov, Sergeant. I’m signing as one
witness; Vergak will sign as the other.
Young lady, this is an affidavit for you to
sign—free consent, religion—”
“What is this about, Jean?” the girl
asked.
“Yusuf will take you away tonight, if
you will trust him. It would be foolish
for one not needed here to remain to die.
Now, so you will be fully protected, I
shall marry you.”
“Marry me, Jean?”
“It isn’t a real marriage, you know—”
He grew red; he knew it and he was
angered by the knowledge. “A conven¬
ience, you know. Nobody will take it
seriously.”
She showed all her teeth in a smile.
“A marriage for fooling ?” she asked.
“Exactly,” Torval agreed, smiling in
turn at her*childish phrase: “A marriage
for fooling. You don’t need to go through
a Moslem ceremony, so it won’t—”
“I was baptized by a holy man.”
“A missionary of the White Fathers,”
Yusuf said, speaking unexpectedly. “I
remember him because he said he was
my namesake: Father Joseph.”
“I know him,” the Lieutenant declared.
This he would mention to his father in
the farewell letter. Perhaps the mission¬
ary would know something concerning
Zaya’s people, her birth, her real iden¬
tity. He might be difficult to locate, how¬
ever, for although grown very old, he
was wandering the remotest reaches of
the desert, with a native convert for a
guide, and his portable chapel stowed
on a pack-camel.
L egionnaire Vergak reported. He was
j a very large, stern man with a short
dark beard.
Torval knew him to be an obedient,
quiet soldier, as brave as most. He had
LADY OF THE LEGION
suffered in last night’s combat, for ad¬
hesive tape covered a gash across his
nose, another on his chin; and his big
fingers were burnt from handling a hot
rifle. But he was not a subordinate now,
and he reminded them all that marriage
was a sacrament, and that he would not
participate in anything that mocked it.
When he was reminded of the situation,
of the danger surrounding them, of ap¬
proaching death, he shrugged: “The soul
is more important than the body.” Tor-
val assured him that there was no derision
intended. “I will take your word for it,
Lieutenant. And I must have a talk
with the young lady, to instruct her in
the obligations of a Christian marriage.”
T ORVAL accepted his conditions. The
religious ceremony, properly recorded,
would offer another difficulty to the
authorities.
While Vergak talked to Zaya, Torval,
Charanov and Yusuf bent over the maps,
and the native indicated the path he in¬
tended to follow. He owned three camels,
so mounts were not a problem. Tn three
days, four at the most, he declared, he
would locate one of the French detach¬
ments. But he engaged himself to take
Zaya into Colomb-Bechar in person.
“We shall leave at ten o’clock,” he
informed Torval, “going down the north
side. There will be a moon, but that spot
is in deep shadow. And they are not
watching to keep anyone from escaping.
They know you have no camels here.”
At six o’clock, Torval went out to
attend roll-call, probably the last for all
of them. The sky was luminous, with the
tawny glow of the brief twilight. The
men were silent, and only the sharp
“PresentI” was heard. They presented
arms as the bugler played “Colors.” The
officer knew that Brichaux had informed
them of developments, and spoke a few
words before dismissing them.
“The marriage will take place at eight-
thirty tonight. The lady will leave soon
after. I authorized the cooks to take from
my personal stores whatever they wish to
make a good dinner for all. Each man
will be allowed a bottle of corked wine.
There will be liqueurs, cigars, and cham¬
pagne. I have already signed the voucher
to take the last from the medical sup¬
plies. I don’t believe our using it now
will deprive any fever case in the future.
The air here is so healthy of late that we
no longer need fear fever.”
They laughed for a while at this.
“I need not advise you to keep from
getting too drunk. The quantities granted
will not bother a Legionnaire for long.
By the time our friends call again, be¬
tween two and three in the morning, you
will be able to receive them. Like
Legionnaires! ”
And, like Legionnaires, they prepared
for the occasion. The tables and benches
were brought into the courtyard; stable-
lanterns were screened with red or green
paper, to give the effect of Venetian
lamps, and suspended from wires
stretched from building to building.
Torval’s stock of canned chicken and
duck was taken to the kitchen, with tins
of fine peas. Each man had placed his
tin mess-kit and cup on the board, and
at each place a bottle of wine was stand¬
ing. The baker had an enormous jelly
tart in the oven.
But there was little gayety until the
corks were drawn. All had had the same
thought: “The condemned men ate hearti¬
ly /” As the fine old Bordeaux poured
down their throats, however, the Legion¬
naires cheered up. Several of them rose
from their benches, lifted their cup
toward the small table where Torval,
Charanov and Zaya were seated. They
offered toasts, in any language that came
easiest to them.
But one man remained on the platform,
and he was changed every thirty minutes.
No sound came from the outside, except
the distant cries of animals. Torval
wondered if the natives had noticed the
unusual profusion of light.
Y USUF had refused the common fare,
dined off hardtack and a tin of bully
beef. He was restless, walked about con¬
stantly, climbed the stairs, paced the
walls, returned to the yard. Zaya had
drunk a few swallows of wine, and not be¬
ing accustomed to it, chattered like a
magpie. But as she shifted from French
to Arabic, and from that to Berber dia¬
lect, she did not reveal very much.
The six quarts of champagne allotted
the men had been lowered into the deep
well to chill. Just as it was being hauled
up, the sentry called out.
“Alert e /”
There was a ludicrous rush to the
stacks of rifles; everyone lumbered to the
wall. In the moonlight, a long line of
silhouettes could be seen, creeping for¬
ward slowly.
The climax of this authentic novel of the Foreign
Legion will appear in our forthcoming May issue.
81
A vivid story of the frontier, by the author of “The Last
of the Thundering Herd”
By Bigelow Neal
M I-TEE came north with the
buffalo herd, a unit in a rum¬
bling carpet of brown that
stretched from horizon to
horizon, a roaring, bellowing host surg¬
ing on and on at the magic call of Sas¬
katchewan.
There was a time when she moved
only with the vanguard, but that was a
time long past. Mire-holes, blizzards,
the strain of crossing and recrossing the
Missouri River, all had exacted their
toll. Now she plodded slowly in the
rear among the old, the sick and the
weak, behind her the dreaded buffalo
wolves waiting for the time when she or
another might falter on the trail. And
with her she carried the promise of a
new life. Even now the instinct of self-
preservation was dominated by the all-
compelling urge for the protection of
her young.
Her course skirted the edge of a sunk¬
en land, the Bad Lands of Dakota, and
she paused on the crest of a ridge, her
ponderous head swinging slowly from
side to side, as her gaze swept the prairie
before her.
Evidently she saw nothing to her lik¬
ing. Neither tree nor rock offered even
partial protection were she to fall behind
the herd. And so she went on again,
moving slowly and erratically as if in
pain; and truly it was time for her to
go, for threatening gray forms were
gathering silently about her.
To continue with the herd was impos¬
sible. To stop meant certain death. It
was a dilemma to challenge a far stronger
mentality than hers. And then a scent
came to her nostrils, a pungent some¬
thing borne on the evening breeze. It
brought a hazy memory of the past, a
clouded recollection of a great square
butte, a line of glowing fires and a cur¬
tain of gas and smoke. Unquestionably
there was a time when the butte had
proved a haven to her and others of her
82
kind; for now, with the pungent odor
on the air, she obeyed the call, half
instinct, half memory, and swung her
head up into the breeze.
But now a new recollection came from
the dim past. In the Bad Lands there
were mountain lions yet more deadly
than the wolves. Again she hesitated,
but the wolves were closing in, and no
choice remained.
Abruptly changing her course, she fol¬
lowed a swale that narrowed and dipped
into the land of chaos. The swale be¬
came a deep draw, a timber-choked cou¬
lee, a white river of plum and thorn-
i^pple blossoms winding down into the
forbidding land. Far below the level of
the prairie she found a glade at the foot
of a bluff surrounded by thorny thickets.
Here enemies could not encircle her, and
there was still a world of power in that
tremendous neck; and her horns, though
dulled by the years, were terrible weap¬
ons even now. Here she lay down to
rest; and here Te was born.
Te was a liability at first. He came
into the world with large ears plastered
against his neck. His big brown eyes
looked much and saw little or nothing.
Probably his brain couldn’t generate a
worth-while idea in a month. He was
guided only by instinct.
With little sense of dignity, he lay flat
on his side while his mother raked him
from stem to stern with her broad rough
tongue. In this process one side of him
acquired a permanent wave and one ear
stuck straight up. If anything, he ap¬
peared more foolish than ever.
Mi-tee became impatient at his lack
of appreciation. A thrust of her nose
rolled him over, and she went to work
on the other side. The change in posi¬
tion was premature, for Te had made no
arrangements concerning his feet. They
should have been tucked under him, but
they were straight and rigid in the grass.
But his brain cleared rapidly, and he
began to take a mild interest in his en¬
vironment.
His first attempts at intelligent ob¬
servation were partially frustrated by
the disloyalty of his neck. No matter
how hard he tried to concentrate, it al¬
lowed his head to wabble. In this man¬
ner, while sniffing at a sprig of prairie
sage soft as down, he found himself
rooting his nose in a cactus plant. It
greatly modified his inquisitiveness.
Another impulse came from his bat¬
tery of instinct. It led his nose up the
shin-bone of his mother until he encoun¬
tered a long curtain of hair hanging from
her knee. Selecting a large mouthful,
he evidently imagined he would find it
nourishing. Instead it was charged with
cockleburs and last year’s beggar-lice.
Again disappointment led to a change
of tactics.
He decided to enlarge his field of ac¬
tivity. His new program called for co¬
operation on the part of his feet, and he
tried to get them under him. The front
pair did fairly well, and he found he
could sit up, but an effort to bring the
others into position landed him on his
nose, and he lapsed into another long
period of thought.
But nature insisted on taking her
course. In the end instinct conquered,
and he stood like a sawhorse braced on
all fours. From then, it was but a mat¬
ter of minutes until he learned such
difficult feats as turning himself end for
end and backing up. For some reason
he learned the more logical forward
movement last of all. Perhaps it was
due to the gentle caresses of his mother’s
tongue. Because she licked his hair
against the grain, he must either brace
himself from going forward or stand on
his head.
Every effort, though a failure in itself,
proved a step in advance, for the blood
flowed more smoothly through his limbs,
new strength came, and his brain gained
rapidly in the contest for control of
his muscles. Accordingly his attitude
changed from passive resistance to ag¬
gression, and he began a systematic ex¬
ploration of his mother, but he circum¬
navigated her huge form several times
before he located his objective.
W ITH success, he showed a high de¬
gree of satisfaction. He stood with
his feet braced wide apart. Thin stream¬
ers of foam swayed and dripped from his
mouth, and his tail wiggled up and up
until it tossed above him like a brown
banner waving high in the hour of
triumph.
For a time he pushed and pulled,
smacked loudly and bunted. The last
was wholly unnecessary but instinctive.
Then gradually his enthusiasm waned.
84
Little by little his tail came to the hori¬
zontal, then down toward his heels. The
supply of nourishment behind his ribs
increased visibly. He was filled to ca¬
pacity and did not know enough to stop.
But here again nature intervened. His
pushes and pulls became half-hearted,
his bunts no more than simulated; and
finally he saved himself from going to
sleep on his feet by lying down with a
grunt and a sigh of satisfaction. He
became merely a bundle, a golden gleam
under th6 buck-brush and the sage while
above him the guarding mother slept on
her feet, her head so low that her breath
stirred ripples in the hair of her sleeping
son.
For some hours the calf did not move.
The chill of a spring morning gave way
to the warmth of midday, and he lay
motionless except for the rise and fall of
his ribs. His mother had grazed from
sight, and so silent was the glade that a
magpie fluttered to a branch above the
sleeping youngster and a cottontail
hopped from the shelter of the thorn-
apples to bask in the warming rays.
Then a tawny form moved slightly in
the underbrush.
T HE cottontail dodged and pattered
away under the trees. The magpie ut¬
tered a warning scream and volleyed up¬
ward to safety. Te opened his eyes at
the scream of the bird and lifted his
head. He was nose to nose and eye to
eye with a mountain lion.
Te was interested. His brown eyes
opened wider, and his pink nose stretched
out toward the curved teeth of the cat.
But his nose brought a message over the
wires of heredity, and his friendly curi¬
osity gave way to fear. Flattening his
ears, the calf dropped his head to the
ground. The movement saved his life.
The lion leaped and struck for the
curly brown neck. But the throat had
moved, and the deadly jaws snapped to¬
gether in the loose skin over the calf’s
shoulder. Not seriously hurt but mind¬
ful of the pain, Te let out a vehement
call for his mother.
There was no second strike at the un¬
protected throat. Before the cat could
recover her balance, the ground trem¬
bled under the impact of thundering
hoofs. The trees behind them swayed
and bowed to the passage of Mi-tee’s
rushing body. The cat snarled, recoiled
and braced herself. A lance-tipped paw
raised to strike, but a second glance at
the shaggy mother, at the onrushing
mountain of infuriated flesh and those
blue-black horns was enough for the lion.
With a final spitting cry, she leaped for
the shelter of the brush.
With only herself to consider, the
mother would have fled from the tawny
menace lurking among the shadows.
None knew better than she that her
charge at the lion was largely a gesture.
It called for all of her strength and left
none with which to continue the combat.
But Te was too young to travel either
rapidly or far. There was no choice.
For the present she must remain even
at the risk of another attack.
For a time peace reigned in the glade.
Under the worried but watchful eyes of
his mother Te gave his attention mainly
to the business of eating and sleeping.
He got up for his meals, and ate until
he could stand no longer. Then he lay
down and slept until the processes of
digestion made it possible to repeat the
performance.
But in a day or so the calf evinced in¬
creasing interest in his surroundings and
began a series of short-range explora¬
tions which kept him on his feet for
longer periods each day. And with new
strength came a spirit of playfulness
which resulted in high-tailed scamper-
ings and charges directed at such ene¬
mies as bunches of sand-grass and clumps
of stunted sage.
On one occasion he became the victim
of a self-generated idea. It occurred to
him that he was a war-lord in his own
right. Selecting his mother as the object
of a devastating assault, he aimed at her
knee and charged. His course, however,
was laid before he dropped his head, and
his advance was a trifle erratic. He not
only missed the knee but he missed ev-
erything, and went under the great
friendly bulk without so much as dis¬
turbing a hair.
Humiliation begot anger. When he
finally checked his rush, he turned to find
his mother, her head swung in his direc¬
tion, grazing without a sign of interest
or admiration. Again he lowered his
curly head, and taking aim at an im¬
aginary line drawn between his mother’s
eyes, he launched himself on a reckless
errand of vengeance.
This time his aim was good and his
bolt went true to the mark. But the
mother never stopped clipping the buffalo
grass; nor did she close an eye to ac¬
knowledge his arrival. Te was more im¬
pressed. His head, designed to with¬
stand at maturity the impact of tons, was
yet too soft. For a time his ideas, war¬
like or otherwise, were badly scattered.
A ND then one evening when the shad-
. ows of the peaks were merging into
dusk, a covey of prairie chickens hurtled
skyward from the thornapple thicket.
Mi-tee swung her head to see two points
of orange light glowing dully from the
underbrush. The lion had returned.
At that the mother lowered her nose
to the head of her sleeping son. A deep
rumbling sound came from her chest. Te
understood, for he scrambled hastily to
his feet, to huddle trembling against the
giant ribs. He too saw the glittering
yellow lights, and he wrinkled his nose
to catch the dreaded catlike scent. And
out of the warning from his mother and
the scent hated by all of his kind, he
generated a hatred destined to smolder
and glow in his wild heart until the time
to come when it would burst into an all-
consuming flame. But now there was
nothing he could do. His mother was
moving, and his bravery was not equal
to his hatred. Accordingly, flattening
one ear against her shoulder and leaning
awkwardly against her side, he plodded
along a trail which led down into the
heart of the Bad Lands.
At the mouth of the coulee where the
white-crested plum thicket gave way to
barren alkali they were on the floor of
a narrow clay-walled canon, its sides a
cross section of the ages, its course
strewn with the debris of centuries.
Through leaping shadows cast by the
northern lights, Te had his first glimpse
of a weird land. The transition from the
comparatively modern setting of his
birth to this graveyard of antiquity was
sudden and complete. Even the snap¬
ping and crackling of rosebushes and the
rattle of stones under his awkward hoofs
gave way to the silence of lifeless clay
and the soundless passage of his feet
over a carpet of alkali.
Knowing more, the little fellow would
have been afraid. Knowing less, he
might have taken no interest. As it was,
however, he plodded along with his eyes
big in wonder and his tail, subdued by
awe, dangling limply.
Once the mother halted and looked
back, but she sounded a worried note of
command and* hurried on when some
shadowy thing moved far back along the
trail and the increasing brilliance of the
northern lights brought orange glints
from the eyes of Immu Tanka.
Te also saw the eyes, and a wave of
anger put a belligerent arch in his back¬
bone; but his memory was short, and
when he fell over the stump of a petrified
tree, his attention returned to the strange
phenomena before him.
Mi-tee’s course took them through aisles
where slender clay pillars supported slabs
of rock like giant mushrooms. They
passed forests of petrified trees, and Te
was startled when the ground trembled
under his feet as they passed sinkholes,
those deadly areas where seemingly bot¬
tomless pits were filled with writhing
mud.
Again the mother stopped to gaze
back into the night, and again came that
rumbling command, for the yellow eyes
were still there, closer than before. Te
obeyed with a renewed wave of anger,
but once more wonder came uppermost
as a jackrabbit broke cover at his feet,
and a mother skunk, followed by the
rippling blanket of black and white
which was her family, crossed before
them. When they reached a turn in the
canon, a wall of gas and smoke stretched
from hill to hill, and Te planted his feet
firmly, refusing to budge as he saw the
dull glow of fires, as he heard the hiss of
steam and the odor of burning sulphur
stung his lungs.
T HIS, then, was the place her faulty
memory associated with safety. It
was nothing more than a flat-topped
butte, three sides rendered unscalable by
ledges of sandstone, and the fourth lined
by the ash-pits and smoke of a burning
lignite vein.
Apparently their way was blocked,
but the mother did not hesitate. At
some time in the past she had lost all
fear of the burning butte. And now with
peaks to the east, and a yellow light
flooded the scene at their feet. Across
from them a file of elk followed some in¬
visible trail on the canon wall; a gray
owl labored across the sky, sending a
host of shadowy cottontails pattering for
shelter; and a coyote, sitting bolt up¬
right on a scoria-tipped peak, pointed his
nose at the moon and broke into yelps
and eerie cries. And now, down through
a temporary rent in the curtain of gas,
mother and son saw a tawny shape mov¬
ing on the alkali. It was Immu Tanka,
the mountain lion, beginning an intermit¬
tent vigil which was to endure until the
day of reckoning finally came. At sight
of her, Mi-tee resumed her climb, while
Te, too weary to keep abreast, followed
with his nose bumping between her heels.
The last of the climb, though steep,
was short. Abruptly the land leveled
off, and Te again shook off a portion of
his weariness to gaze on a narrow plain
as level as a table. A thick carpet of
buffalo grass covered the ground, and a
a last glance at the cat still close upon
their trail, she rumbled a sharp order to
the calf and began the ascent of a trail
which led upward between the fires.
It was a perilous moment. Nothing
but a dim memory told her the path was
safe. In one place the trail was all but
eaten away, and the clay under her feet
crumbled and slid into a pit of fire. But
she passed over safely, and Te held stur¬
dily to his place under her side until they
were well above the fires and climbing
the face of the burning butte.
Halfway to the summit, in the lap of
an old landslide, a spring trickled from
the butte. Here Mi-tee left the path
and paused to drink, while Te sniffed at
the water, and shivered in sudden fright
when a frog leaped from under his nose.
Returning to the path, they resumed the
ascent, Mi-tee slowly and with many
pauses, and Te now staggering with
weariness and a bit groggy from want of
sleep.
With their last halt short of the crest,
Mi-tee turned for a final survey of the
canon below. Te looked also, and the
sleepiness fled from his eyes, for the great
disk of the moon swung clear of the
breeze swept across the Bad Lands, caus¬
ing moonlit ripples where the grass
swayed under its breath. Before them
stood a huge boulder, and in its shelter
Mi-tee stopped. Te was hungry and
made a brave attempt at eating his sup¬
per, but his eyelids were too heavy and
the aches in his muscles too numerous.
When Mi-tee knelt and lowered her great
body to the ground, he was glad to curl
himself in a ball against her neck. . . .
When Te awoke, his mother was feed¬
ing on the plain. It was very comfort¬
able in the lee of the boulder, and the
sighing of the wind around the rock and
across the buffalo grass prolonged his
drowsiness. But when a prairie chicken
whizzed like a bullet across his back, he
sprang to his feet and made for his
mother.
Breakfast over, they went back down
the path to the spring. While Mi-tee
drank, Te sampled some choke-cherry
leaves and found them unsatisfactory.
Turning his attention to the dried fruit
of a rose-bush, he learned that nature
intended them for deer and buffalo
calves. He was eating them with con¬
siderable relish when the activities of his
mother caught and held his attention.
Mi-tee had found a puddle of mud. In
the middle of it she lay down flat and
drove one horn into the oozy ground.
Then by a series of kicks and powerful
bodily contortions, she worked her way
around the horn until one side of her
was thoroughly coated with blue mud.
Then turning over, she kept on until her
entire body, even her face, was coated
with slime. Afterward she got to her
feet and returned up the path, all but a
total stranger to her son.
Later in the day, when sun and wind
had dried and caked her coating of ooze,
she went to the boulder and rubbed off
most of the mud. With it came great
tufts of her winter coat. Te seemed
much pleased with the result, for when
the mud was rubbed off, he found his
mother was still there!
T HUS began their life on the burning
butte. And it was an ideal life for
Te. Protected from the lion by the bar¬
rier of burning lignite, with both grass
and water far beyond their needs, and
with the trees and brush by the spring
affording ample protection from storm
and blizzard, life for both mother and son
became simple indeed.
In such an environment and under
those conditions Te grew amazingly.
Nor was the more soldierly side of his
training neglected, for though he had
none other of his size with which to prac¬
tice the art of battle, often he would see
Immu Tanka lurking beyond the line of
fire, or catch her scent drifting on the
air. Then he would become angry, and
battle with trees and rocks, and often
with his mother.
Month followed month, and seasons
slid by in rapid succession. Te grew
stronger as his mother aged and weak¬
ened ; and where under ordinary circum¬
stances, he would have left her at the
end of his first year, and she would have
forgotten him quite as soon, here, prison¬
ers as they were, a comradeship devel¬
oped which would endure as long as both
were alive.
A ND so it happened that Te was three
. years old before a change came in
the normal course of their imprisonment.
It began one day in the spring. Mi-tee
lay sleeping near the boulder; and Te
was troubled because she had not eaten
nor gone to the spring that day or the
day before. He was coaxing her now,
rumbling plaintively and licking her
neck to attract her attention. But she
lay quietly, apparently asleep.
And then the silence of the Bad Lands
was broken by a dull roar, and the earth
trembled. Probably the fire eating un¬
der the face of the butte had tapped some
underground reservoir of water, and the
pressure of steam thus generated had
risen until nothing could withstand it.
Anyway, as Te raised his head, startled
by the roar and the trembling earth, he
saw a wide strip of the butte slipping
down into the canon. It moved slowly at
first, but with increasing speed; and now
columns of smoke shot high into the air,
and the strip of sinking plain broke up
into hurtling sections. Then everything
was blotted out by dust.
It lasted but a moment. Then the roar
died away and the trembling stopped.
When the breeze had carried away the
dust, the steep face of the butte was a
gentle slope of boulders, broken clay and
twisted trees. Under it the fires of
Smoky Butte were smothered and buried
forever. Now the way to freedom was
open—and now the opportunity for
which the mountain lion had waited so
long had come.
By evening Te forgot his fright and
went in search of the vanished spring.
Mi-tee still lay by the rock. Suddenly
a leopard squirrel squeaked in fright and
darted into his burrow. The shrilling of
crickets ceased, and even the sawing of
grasshoppers died away. Then some¬
thing moved behind the mother, but she
did not see. The dead grass rustled as a
threatening tawny form glided forward,
but Mi-tee did not hear. Immu Tanka
had come again.
Inch by inch the yellow cat came on.
It seemed that this time nothing could
rob her of her victim. But something,
perhaps a sound, perhaps a scent, warned
the aged buffalo of peril. Mi-tee opened
her eyes and saw again the yellow eyes
and the cruelly curved teeth of the lion.
Too weak to lift her head, Mi-tee used
the last of her strength and called to her
son for aid exactly as he had called to
her so many times in the past.
H ER cry of distress was music to the
ears of Immu Tanka. Instead of
leaping upon her defenseless prey, she
paused, her tail whipping from side to
side, and she yawned with catlike pleas¬
ure in the suffering of her intended vic¬
tim. But suddenly she recoiled with a
spitting hiss of hatred. She had post¬
poned her assault a moment too long,
for there on the crest of the butte, in the
full glow of the sunset, stood Te.
It was indeed a far cry from the wab¬
bly, trembling calf to the giant warrior
that faced her now. As he came slowly
on, his eyes rolling in anger, she was
face to face with God’s greatest living
handiwork on the prairies. He was far
taller and longer and broader than his
mother. On his sides and flanks his
satiny brown skin rippled and rolled as
giant muscles swelled beneath. His
shoulders and neck were hidden in a
black tumult of mane. Long fringes glit¬
tered at his knees; through the curly hair
on his face great brown eyes were blood¬
shot with anger. And through the heavy
growth on the crest of his head his
horns, blue-black, cold and sharp as nee¬
dles, sparkled in the last of the sunlight.
A few rods from the lioness Te halted.
One forefoot raked the ground, and a
spurt of dust rose above him. A roar
burst from his mighty throat. A blast
of air from his lungs flattened the grass
at his feet. Dropping his head, he
launched more than a ton and a quarter
of flesh and bone at the lion.
Under his charge the earth trembled.
Behind him a ribbon of dust floated
toward the sky. As he reached the place
where the cat had been, his horns came
up with a ripping stroke that would have
WAR LORD. OF SMOKY BUTTE
cut her to shred's. But Immu Tanka was
not there. Quicker than the lightning
above the Bad Lands, she had leaped to
one side.
The lion has two methods of battle.
In one she leaps from above to sever the
spinal cord. In the other she turns on
her back and uses the ripping power of
her claws. Now even as she dodged, she
leaped for the back of the buffalo.
But she miscalculated on the youth
and agility of her opponent. Te wheeled
so suddenly that she missed the fatal
stroke and tumbled from his back to the
ground. And she had no other opportu¬
nity, for Te did not back away for a
second charge. Instead he carried the
battle to close quarters, facing unflinchr
ingly the raking power of her claws apd
driving the great cat in a circle about the
form of his dying mother.
A SWIRLING cloud of dust gathered
about the warriors. Overhead an
eagle screamed defiance to the combat¬
ants; around them jackrabbits forgot the
eagle and hopped about in excitement.
Then Immu Tanka tried another leap
for the back of the buffalo—and the fight
was over, for he caught her in mid-air and
his deadly horns struck home. She went
into the air end over end; and when she
struck the ground, she lay as she fell,
lifeless and motionless except for the rip¬
pling of her yellow coat as a breeze swept
across the butte.
For a time Te stood above the form of
his vanquished enemy, roaring defiance.
Then he approached his mother, and a
deep rumble of friendship formed in his
chest. But there was no answer.
Now from far away the evening breeze
brought the sound of the migrating herd.
Te raised his head and listened. Another
roar burst from his lungs, and he turned
toward the sound. But on the brink of
the butte he paused, for his mother had
not followed.
He called to her. He returned and
stood above her, rumbling coaxingly.
Dropping his great head, he licked her
peck, but there was no response. To¬
morrow perhaps, when he realized that
their companionship was ended forever,
he would answer the call of the herd.
But as yet be was unconvinced. As night
closed in, still rumbling that plaintive
call, he stood—a mountain of flesh and
bope apd muscle—looming above the mo-t
tiopless form.
Another story by Bigelow Neal will appear
ip an early i«»ue.
JI/HA TEVER the reason, the
W people of the theater have
from the earliest times been in¬
volved in actual off-stage events
even more dramatic than the
scenes of their mimic world.
This story “Shyster Hero” goes
back to the first recorded thea¬
ter, the Eleusinian Mysteries of
ancient Greece—and is the first
of a remarkable series.
Pen drawings by Clinton Shepherd
and John Richard Flanagan,
after the paintings by
Peder Cavanagh
I NSANITY, in its milder forms, be¬
speaks either an addled pate or a
sublime genius. In the case of my
friend Peder Cavanagh, the decision
is difficult to reach. Being an artist,
he relies on the artistic temperament,
which is a peculiar quantity.
That he has a hypnotic effect upon
people, even upon the editors who buy his
sketches, is undeniable. When Cavanagh
really turns on his big, bluff, blue-eyed
Norse-Irish personality, he is irresistible;
if this happens in his own studio, sur¬
rounded by ship-models and sea paintings
and sketches, he is supreme. He could
persuade anyone of anything. The devil
of it is, that he is usually right.
When I walked in and saw him finish¬
ing the sketch of a nude, I was astonished.
“Hello!” I said. “This is something
new for you. Where’s your model ?”
“Dead.” He switched the easel around
toward the light, and left it. “Take an¬
other look, while I wash up.”
The World
By H. Bedford-Jones
I studied the sketch, fascinated; it had
the damnable charm of Cavanagh himself
—an indefinable, appealing quality.
“I’m going in for theatrical stuff,” he
said, coming back and standing beside
me, as he wiped his hands. He was
pleased by my expression of interest.
“This, for example,” he amplified, “takes
one back to the very origins of the theater
in dim antiquity,”
“Garden of Eden?” I asked.
“No levity; I’m serious. One of the
immortal stories of art and history, Har¬
ry, that has so modern an angle it might
have happened yesterday. In fact, it hap¬
pens every day. Blood and romance, tears
and the shadow of death, beauty and—”
“Omit the flowers, my dear fellow,” I
broke in upon his rhapsody. “You’ve got
something in this sketch; no sales-talk is
necessary.”
“Not for sale, dammit,” he retorted.
“This is beyond price—”
“Did you say the model is dead?” I
interrupted again.
“Yes. I’ve been trying to recapture
something: a dream of classical beauty,
Athens in its ancient pristine loveliness.
The air-effects; that’s no joke, you know.
They say that the air of ancient Athens
was responsible for its beauty and mental
vigor—some vagUe electric quality in the
air. Today, we’d call it violet rays, and
send sinus-sufferers there. Here’s a fin¬
ished sketch, to go with that nude. A bit
of water-color work.”
He began to fumble among his sketches
stacked on the floor, and got one out.
91
“Never mind it,” I said. “You know
very well I don’t like water-colors.”
“This is different, though. Ever hear
of Eleusis?”
“Of course. A town fourteen miles
from Athens. The famous Mysteries of
Demeter were celebrated there—the Eleu-
sinian Mysteries. But see here, Peder—
I thought you said this had some connec¬
tion with the theater?”
“So it has.” He hoisted his picture to
the easel; then, in front of it, he suddenly
clapped another sketch—this time show¬
ing the same figure and face, but clothed
in a flowing robe.
“Look at this, now,” he said. “Same
girl. You need the color in this gown, or
peplos, as it was called. The ancient
mysteries, like that of Eleusis, were the
oldest of all theatrical performances, and
of course strictly limited to men as actors
and audience.”
“Never mind about that,” I said, look¬
ing at the sketch. “By thunder, Peder,
you really have something here! Don’t
tell me you didn’t use a model. There’s
an exquisite grace in this figure, in the
features—”
He silenced me with his outburst of
fluency. He was off full speed.
“Listen! I want you to get this right:
You’ve got to see the girl’s background in
a literal sense. She wasn’t precisely what
we’d call a model of propriety today; but
in Athens, remember, customs and morals
were very different from our standards.
Now,”—and he jerked away his sketches,
—“here’s the water-color.”
“Ah! ” An exclamation broke from me.
I leaned forward, entranced by the color
and balance and glowing beauty of the
scene.
“This was her house,” said Peder Cava-
nagh, and pointed. “Look! Here’s the
glitter of blue sea in the distance; the
silver-green olive groves, the white build¬
ings of the city, all a frame for the sub¬
ject. And in the foreground, against a
house-wall lifting to the right, her ter¬
raced garden—”
H IS voice rambled on, but I forgot it.
He had somehow captured that light
and intoxicating air of Athens, unique in
its balmy quality. It carried the scent of
a thousand blossoms, for spring was
everywhere. Flowers hedged the garden
paths, and fruits were in full bloom.
Against the house-wall was a fountain
surrounded by cushioned marble seats.
An awning of bright-hued Anatolian
weave was stretched to keep off the sun.
On every side were exquisite bits of art—
marble statuettes, figurines of wood and
ivory and gold. The wall was faced with
magnificent Persian tiles, plundered from
some Eastern temple or palace, showing
very curious details of Oriental worship.
Against this blaze of color sat a young
man, reading aloud the immortal lines of
an Iliad written on bleached parchment
from Pergamos.
92
The voice of his auditor broke in upon
his reading.
“Ah, SkopasI You read well, but not
well enough. As in everything else,
you’re admirable but not supreme.”
He broke off, frowning, to bend half-
angry eyes on the woman to whom this
house and garden belonged. He was hand¬
some, well-built, and in his eyes burned
the fire of desire and a desolate longing.
“Phryne! Will you never yield, will
you never love me ?” he burst forth. “I’m
ready to pour riches at your feet; with
them my faith and loyalty and service—
my whole self! To win your love, I’d
gladly die tomorrow. Yet you always say
the same thing. What can I do to show
myself supreme, as you demand ?”
“Prove that you’re not ordinary, my
dear Skopas. For example, look at me!
I’m supreme, the most beautiful woman in
Athens. Perdiccas the sculptor has said
so, and he knows. Why should I bother
with ordinary men?”
Her voice blended with the humming
of the bees and stole like music upon the
fragrant air; its soft, husky vibrance was
indescribable. So was she herself, as she
reclined upon the cushions. No woman,
but girl, aflame with mischievous, dancing
vitality. She wore a long, gossamer-thin
peplos of blue, upon which disported tiny
silver doves, the bird of Venus.
“True,” Skopas said thoughtfully. He
gazed at her lovely hair of raw gold, her
eyes like sapphire, her face that in repose
was the face of a goddess, and in anima¬
tion was like a flashing, sun-glimmering
ocean wave.
“Yes, that’s true,” he went on. “You’re
not like other girls, Phryne. You have
extraordinary fancies, impulses, curiosi¬
ties. You do daring things. You pre¬
dicted that the frieze of the Parthenon
would come to life; and then you danced,
veiled, on the steps so that people thought
the miracle had happened. You refuse to
show your face abroad, except here in the
garden or when you serve in the temple of
Venus. You are unpredictable, and be¬
yond understanding 1 ”
“And supreme!” She laughed softly,
luxuriously, as she stretched herself.
“Suppose I became an actress and went
upon the stage?”
“You’d be glorious!” he cried quickly.
“You’d be the most wonderful Antigone,
the most charming Kassandra, ever seen 1 ”
S HE grimaced slightly. “Nonsense,
Skopas. I don’t mean to worship the
Muses in the theater itself. I mean the
older stage, from which our theater came.
I mean the stage which existed back and
back into the dim past before there was
any history; the ancient and primeval
stage, which constituted a worship of the
olden gods, with masks and characters
and ritual.”
He started slightly. “Not the Myster¬
ies, Phryne ? You know that no woman
can take part in the Mysteries. It is for¬
bidden. No one has ever spoken of those
secret things; no writer or poet, no sculp¬
tor or artist, has ever alluded to what
passes behind the dread seal of the
Mysteries! ”
She regarded him, half-smiling. “True.
I forgot that, Skopas. By the way, the
Mysteries at Eleusis are to be celebrated
next week—the spring festival. Aren’t
you ane of the officials ?”
“Yes,” he said, not without pride. “I
have charge of the characters in the chief
parts; I cast them, costume them, coach
them. There’s a rehearsal at Eleusis to¬
morrow.”
“Well, here’s luck to you! ” She lifted
a silver goblet and sipped the cool wine,
and seemed to change the subject alto¬
gether. “Do you know, Skopas, I rather
like you! If you’d do one thing for me—
just one thing—I’ll give you anything
you ask.”
He stiffened. For a moment he stared
at her, his eyes eager and impetuous.
“Name it!” he said curtly, color rising
in bis face. “By the gods, I’ll do it 1 ”
93
“Agreed, then,” she said. “An oath, re¬
member, by all the gods! I understand
that in the Mysteries next week, in the
worship of Demeter the earth-mother, the
characters of Proserpine and other women
are played by men. Well, assign one of
those parts to me. That’s all.”
Terror seized him. His eyes dilated,
the color ebbed from his face. All in a
moment, he became quiet as cold cinders.
“That’s impossible,” he said in a low
voice. “I have sworn an oath, by Deme¬
ter herself! ”
“You just now swore by all the gods,”
said she, smiling. “In either case, you
must become a breaker of oaths, a man
forsworn! Therefore, choose the better
way; break an oath, and win me, have my
love! For it shall be yours—I swear it! ”
Sweat started on his forehead.
“Your accursed curiosity!” he broke
out. “You want to do what no woman
has ever done. I might have guessed it.
Why, you’ll be torn in pieces! The
Athenians will never endure to have a
woman profane the Mysteries! It would
mean certain death.”
“Not at all,” she said coolly. “You
forget that I’m in the service of Venus,
my friend.” And she touched the blue
robe significantly. “A servant of the gods
cannot be adjudged to death.”
“But you’d be banished or sold into
slavery, at the best,” he said hoarsely.
“Silly!” Her eyes warmed upon him.
“Who would know ?”
“The gods would know,” he muttered.
Swift anger shook her. “Get out of
here!” she cried, with a flash of fury.
“I’m sick of such talk. Be a god, instead
of a man, for once! In that case, come
back at twilight, and if your lips burn for
mine, I’ll give you a trifle of advance
payment. Otherwise, stay away forever!
Now leave, before I forget my oath and
change my mind altogether, you craven 1
I offer you what other men would be glad
to have, and you prate of the gods! Go!
And don’t take that Iliad with you, either.
It belonged to the great Euripides, and
I value it as an association copy.”
Skopas departed, in mingled anger and
dismay; which, as she well knew, would
presently kindle into desperate desire.
F IVE years before, she had come out of
Bceotia, an awkward little farm girl, to
peddle cloves in the city. Now her awk¬
ward country name was gone, and all her
past was gone with it; as Phryne, fairest
of the fair, she had won to the very sum¬
mit of fame. Wealth had been showered
upon her; all Athens raved of her beauty;
and her name was extolled throughout
Greece and the isles. Sculptors and
artists vied for her services as a model,
and the great painter Apelles had immor¬
talized her features.
A little love, a little kiss—there was far
more to it than that, and her profession
was a proud one in Athens. Intellectual
companionship, a sharing of joy and sor¬
row and problems, was the great thing;
had not Aspasia been the inspiration of
Pericles ?
Left alone in the garden, Phryne caught
up the scroll of the Iliad, and mouthed
the golden lines; they were intoxicating
as the air itself, and she rendered them
with a passionate delight, a feeling, an
elegance which was marvelous to hear. As
the liquid music of her voice came to a
pause, another voice broke in:
“Bravo! Never before have I heard
poetry declaimed with such loveliness,
upon such lovely lips! ”
Phryne glanced up, in startled surprise
and anger.
“Hello! ” she exclaimed, with a touch of
rough Boeotian slang. “Who left the door
open ?”
Hyperides laughed, as he came for¬
ward and saluted her.
“I bribed your servants to let me enter
unannounced. Forgive them, and forgive
me; I craved a sight of beauty unaware,
dear Phryne. The fault was wholly mine.”
Her face cleared. She looked up at
him with a sunny smile.
“You’re irresistible, and you know it!
Hyperides, where the devil did you get
your magic? You’re not handsome; you
have a glib tongue, but that’s not rare in
Athens; and yet, somehow, with all your
drawbacks, you do contrive to say the
right thing at the right time 1 ”
He was a dark, shrewd man, famed for
his knowledge of language and speech;
The Rhetorician, they called him in the
city. Wealthy and unscrupulous, a born
lawyer, he knew every twist and turn of
legal phraseology. And behind this was a
certain magic, as she said—a deep knowl¬
edge of men’s hearts and minds, and the
innate character which gave him an
ability to play upon them as upon a lyre.
“And yet, Phryne,” he said, almost sad¬
ly, “not all my wit nor wealth nor clever
speech can make you love me! ”
“That’s true,” she rejoined. “And the
reason, Hyperides, I think, is that you
provoke an instinct of combat in me. In¬
stead of flinging my arms about your
neck, I want to fight you off, match my
wit against yours, pit myself against
you! ”
“It’s a pity,” he said with a sigh. “You
and I together could do great things; I
need your invigorating energy, your dar¬
ing, your courage, to back me up in vari¬
ous matters. I’ve just returned from
Chios, where I’ve been handling that in¬
volved old tangle of Demetrios vs, the
Chian Wine Corporation, that goes back
to the time of the Persian wars, and I
think it’s all straightened out. I’m prac¬
tically sure of the decision.”
“You would be,” she commented. “Al¬
so, of your fee.”
He laughed lightly. “Of course! I
tried to find you at the Temple of Venus
last night after my boat got in; I was
hungry for a sight of you. But you were
not there.”
“No; I don’t go on duty till next
month,” she rejoined.
“Good! I’m going to lay siege to your
heart, I warn you! I’ve brought you back
some lovely doves, and a cask of the finest
wine in Chios.”
P HRYNE shrugged, with a return of
her irritation.
“My dear Hyperides, can’t you make
love with something better than pres¬
ents?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. If I were ever on my
knees to you in an agony of fear—if you
could do something no other man on earth
could do—oh, I don’t know! ” She flung
out her arms in futile despair. “That’s
just it; I don’t know! I’m sick of these
petty, ordinary men who are all alike; I
feel that I can only love a man who stands
out from the mob, a man who has the
courage to carve out some new course, to
do something different, whether right or
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
wrong! Skopas could do it, but he lacks
the backbone. You could do it, and you’re
too wary, too sure of every step. I want a
man who can gamble magnificently I ”
“I see you’re in poetical mood,” said
Hyperides dryly, with a gesture toward
the Iliad. “The heroes are all dead, my
dear. We’re living in a practical age.
You’re like all the younger generation.
You want to live dangerously; you seek
thrills and new experiences. You’ll take
any kind of a chance, if you can only do
something no one has done before, or
shock the world and thereby get a tremen¬
dous kick out of it! ”
She bent a lazy, half-affectionate smile
upon him.
“Hyperides, you must be a mind-read¬
er ! Decidedly, you fall in with my mood.
But you don’t seem very upset by it all.”
“I’m not,” said the lawyer cheerfully.
“I can wait. There comes a time when
your type of girl falls, and falls hard. As
you just now said—when you’re on your
knees to me in an agony of fear, then
you’ll realize my true worth.”
“On my knees to you ? Zeus forbid! ”
she exclaimed scornfully. Then she melt¬
ed. “But I do like you, really. And I’ll
prove it by letting you walk with me as
far as the Temple of Poseidon.”
“Why on earth are you going there?”
demanded Hyperides in surprise. She
laughed gayly.
“Because when there was a storm the
other day, I vowed a sacrifice to the sea-
god if a friend of mine came safely home
from sea; and I must go and pay for it.”
“A friend ? At sea ?” He stared at her,
half-comprehending. “You can’t mean—”
“You, stupid! Of course!” With a
burst of laughter, she rose, slipped on her
sandals, and flecked a corner of the blue
transparent robe over her head. “Come
on.”
“Then you do care a little!” Hyper¬
ides cried joyfully.
“Nonsense! I thought I might need a
lawyer one of these days,” she retorted.
“Ready?”
S O, together, they left the hillside house
and walked to the sea-god’s temple,
where Phryne handed over clinking gold
to pay for the sacrifice of a white bull—
no small amount, either. Hyperides,
rather moved, knelt in a prayer of thanks¬
giving for his safe return. When he came
to his feet, she was gone, and only the
lingering echo of silver laughter sounded
from the busy street when he rushed out
in search of her.
She tripped lightly home, her face cov¬
ered as usual. Her name flew along the
streets as she passed; men turned to look
after her, eagerly; shops were emptied
for a glimpse of her, whose face was sel¬
dom seen of men in general. “Phryne is
going by! Phryne the divine is passing!
Phryne, the Toad!”
That was the meaning of her name.
They had given her the nickname years
ago, when the poet Memnon, at some
banquet, had compared her mobile, ani¬
mated face to a sun-flashing wave of the
sea.
“Ha!” shouted somebody. “A green
wave! She must be green in the face like
a toad! ”
The name had stuck; and Phryne,
proudly swearing it would become the
most beloved name in Athens, had made it
an emblem of conquest and achievement.
T HAT night a dozen scholars, poets
and philosophers reclined in the ban¬
quet-room of Phryne’s house; they ate
and drank, and as the heady wine took
effect, waxed eloquent. This was no wild
orgy, but a feast of the intellect. It was
only thirty years since Alexander had
conquered the world, and these men
could speak at first hand of Plato, of
Socrates, of Euripides and a dozen more,
as the wine was passed around.
But Phryne, fleeing her guests, sat by
the fountain in the garden, and there in
the starlight talked with the tormented
man who had sought her out.
Skopas gulped down the wine she thrust
at him, and took heart. At first he had
scarcely been able to speak, for his tumult
of soul, but her warm fragrant presence
rallied him, and the wine gave him
tongue.
“May the gods forgive me! I’ll do it,
Phryne; if you still demand it, I’ll do it
for love of you. Yet I beg you to give
up the wild idea! ”
“Of course I demand it. Come, dear
friend, be calm,” she said, and put her
cool slim hand on his. “Why, your pulse
is racing like mad! Take it calmly,
Skopas. Tell me, first, how it will be
arranged.”
“Simply enough, after all,” he said in
a wretched voice. “Young Heracles, the
cobbler’s son, is a la-de-da sort of chap,
as you may know; rather effeminate.
He was to take the role of the Muse, Clio,
who brings a message from the gods in—
in a certain part of the work. He’s badly
in debt. Well, I’ve squared him, that’s
all, on a pretext that somebody else wants
THE WORLD WAS THEIR STAGE
his part. He’s going to a farm in Bceotia
on Monday, for a drinking-party with
some friends. Nobody else will know he’s
not taking the part assigned him. You’ll
meet me late Monday afternoon. I’ll re¬
serve a room at the Teriiple Tavern in
Eleusis. I’ll have the costume and mask,
and will coach you in your part. You
can go directly from the tavern, masked
and costumed, to the temple with me.”
Phryne caught her breath, and clapped
her hands softly.
“Splendid! ” she cried with enthusiasm.
“Splendid! Why, Skopas, you’re won¬
derful!”
“I don’t feel that way,” he retorted bit¬
terly. “It means betrayal, treachery—”
“Nonsense! It means just this! ” she
exclaimed, and in an ecstasy of delight
flung back her robe. She.drew his hand
to her, placed it on her heart, and her
arms twined about his neck. “This,
Skopas—my lips, myself, my love! I
promised you as much; I keep my word.
Kiss me, Skopas, and think only that the
gods are kind, and approve what you’ve
done! For if they did not approve of
your devotion, they would certainly in¬
terfere and prevent the matter!”
The argument was rather good, to the
mind of Skopas; and much better was
the proof of it. When Phryne was in
generous mood, she gave with all her
heart and soul; and if her generosity
toward Skopas was merely an impetuous,
momentary giving, provoked by elation,
it was none the less effective.
When they separated, in the cool star¬
light, Skopas had forgotten all remorse,
all his wretched self-accusations; he was
in for it now, with a swagger and a wild
brave laugh, and so rapt in his love as
to be blind to all else.
But Phryne, returning to her party of
poets and philosophers, amazed them all
by the brilliance of her wit, by the blaz¬
ing eloquence of her tongue, and by the
triumphant exultation of her dancing.
She danced for them as never before had
she danced, while old Statiros the Stoic
wheezed a drunken melody on the pipes,
and the Cretan sage Idomeneos cocked a
wreath askew on his ruffled gray locks
and clashed away at the cymbals. It
was a wild, delirious, ecstatic dance; and
Cleon the poet wrote a rhapsodic poem
about it which may be read to this day
in the Bacchic Anthology.
B UT on the Monday afternoon, in an
upstairs room of the Temple Tavern
at Eleusis, a different scene took place.
The fourteen-mile highway out from
Athens had been crowded most of the
day. There were the officers and par¬
ticipants in the Mysteries, several hun¬
dred in all. There were the young men,
who were about to be initiated into the
first degree that evening, some boisterous,
some half fearful; for all agreed, solemn¬
ly, that this initiation was a dread and
terrible experience that touched more
upon death than on life. Then there
were the masses of men who formed the
main body of the mystic brotherhood,
most of them in hilarious mood, so that
every wineshop in Eleusis was crammed
to the doors, and the rollicking old soldier
song about the red-haired girl from
Babylon was roared forth on all sides,
with the unpublished verses Alexander’s
army had brought back from Persia.
I N the upper room at the Tavern, the
excited and eager Phryne listened to all
that her tutor told her, learned her part
perfectly, listened intently to his grave
coaching. Skopas, beneath his outward
desperate calm, was in a state of nervous
panic. The Mysteries would continue
for two more nights, and the prospect ap¬
palled him.
“Whatever happens, keep your head! ”
he cautioned the girl. “Tonight occurs
the crime, the murder; tomorrow night,
the tomb scenes, the appeal to the gods;
and on the final night, the story of resur¬
rection— the fertility symbolism. For
two thousand years and more, this drama
has been played out on this very spot,
and kept secret. Remember, it’s death
for both of us if you’re suspected!”
Phryne smiled. “You should worry,
my dear. You were willing to die for me,
you know.”
“But not in too unpleasant a fashion,”
replied Skopas gloomily. “That rascal
Hyperides would love to see me out of
his way. I met him today, and he smiled
in a way I don’t half like, and flung out
a dark hint that Athens might not be too
healthy a place for some people he knew.
. . . Well, well, now go over the pass-
signs once more!”
She did so, and he nodded in satisfac¬
tion. Then she bared her bosom, and he
bound her breasts tightly with cloths.
Her golden hair was cut and trimmed,
and darkened with a wash of color. When
she was dressed in the robe of a Master
of the Mysteries, Skopas gave her the
cloak that represented her costume, and
over her sweet face placed the simpering
mask of the Muse, Clio, binding it firmly
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
in place. She walked across the room
and back, imitating the walk of a man,
and he nodded.
“Perfect! Come, then.”
They went together, and were lost in
the scurrying throngs passing into the
temple enclosure.
T HE stage fronted the huge courtyard.
Torches and cressets smoked into the
night sky, lighting the serried masses of
faces, thousands upon thousands jam¬
ming every nook and cranny. Off stage,
watching, waiting, Phryne had no fear
whatever. The imposture was easy be¬
yond belief. Compliments were showered
on her by the other actors, who vowed
that for once young Heracles had a role
that suited him admirably. Soon she
would pass on the stage, give her single
speech, and take her place opposite the
chorus.
Her cue was approaching. As she
awaited it tensely, there was a commotion
behind her. A sudden voice uprose:
“There he is, yonder. In the part of
Clio.”
A panting, straining-eyed man was
shoved forward to the side of Phryne.
“Master Heracles! I’ve run all the
way—your old father has had a stroke.
He begs you to come to his side as soon
as— By the immortals, this is not my
master!” The man broke off, staring
around. “This is not Heracles, I tell
you! Look at his hands!”
Others came crowding around. Phryne
heard her cue from the stage. She made
a hasty effort to break through the circle
and escape to the stage. Half a dozen
hands caught hold of her. With an angry
cry, she sought to break clear; and then,
so swiftly that she scarcely realized it,
disaster engulfed her. Someone jerked
at her robe, disclosing her white thigh.
Another hand wrenched at her mask, and
laid bare her face.
“Profaned! The Mysteries are pro¬
faned ! A woman, a woman! ”
The wild, shrill yell halted everything;
and then, voice upon wolfish voice, rose
the infernal howl of the pack for blood—
her blood.
She chilled to it. An awful, insuper¬
able terror struck into her, as the whole
place shook with the yells for vengeance.
No one, as yet, knew who she was. The
robe was pulled half away, confirming the
cheat.
“Make her the victim of the ritual!”
went up the pealing yells. “Tear her to
pieces! Rip the flesh from her!”
Luckily, the crowd could pot get at
her, here in the wings; the maddened
thousands threatened to tear the very
stones of the theater apart. The temple
guards closed around her, and the priests
of Demeter. Someone reached her with
one fearful blow across the face, that
brought blood from her mputh and nos¬
trils; then she was hustled away into a
rear room of tfie temple, safe and under
guard, but sobbing hysterically, smeared
with blood, shaking with stark terror as
the ravening shouts mounted higher and
higher.
What happened out there ? She did
not know, could never be certain. Into
those thundering voices, however, came
a sudden yelping satisfaction, a blood-ex¬
citement, as dogs yelp with heart-hurried
tongues when the kill takes place. After
that, the noise sornewjmt died down.
The room in which she lay was filled
with figures, staring at her. Priests of
the temple, and with them masked actors,
the chief players in the Mysteries. In
her frantic terror, she shrieked to them
for mercy, for pity. They talked of tak¬
ing her forth, stripping her, and handing
her over to the mob.
Suddenly a new voice was heard, a new
figure pushed forward. It was Hyperides,
who stood looking coldly at her for a mo¬
ment, then turned and addressed the
others.
“Brethren,” he said in his compelling
tones, “wait one moment! Our brother
Skopas has paid for his folly and weak¬
ness; that is just and fitting. But it is
not fitting that a woman should be slain
in this holy place. Po you know this
woman, whom Skopas introduced ? No;
but I do. She has committed an offense
against the gods, against the whole city!
Better let her be taken to Athens and
brought before the tribunal of the Heli-
asts; we have avenged the broken oaths
of Skopas; let the courts avenge the af¬
front to the laws!”
“Who is she, Hyperides?” came the
bpating questions.
“Phryne, the Hetaira.”
N OW there was fresh tumult of in¬
credulity and amazement, as this
news spread. Vaguely, Phryne realized
that Skopas had been caught and killed,
somehow; it did not matter. Amid the
clatter of tongues, she cried out to Hy¬
perides not to desert her. He looked
down and spoke, so that no one else heard.
“Quiet, you little fool! Don’t wipe
your face; leave it all bloody.”
THE WORLD WAS THEIR STAGE
She relaxed, as she had been flung by
the guards, and lay quiet. Her quick
wits began to recover from the paralyzing
spasm of terror. Hyperides had come to
the rescue, then! She heard his voice,
through the confused uproar in the room.
Bad enough, he said, to have shed her
blood at all on this holy ground. The
priests agreed; she, as she lay, deftly
smeared the drops from her nostrils
across her face, so that she seemed badly
enough hurt.
The arguments of Hyperides won over
inflamed passions. When he pointed out
that Phryne was in the service of Venus,
the priests instantly demanded that the
secular authority take her in charge.
Bound and beaten, she was sneaked
out of the temple by a side passage, and
there forced into a closed litter. Soldiers
guarding her closely, they took the road
to Athens.
A LREADY Athens was in tumult, for
. rumors had spread that a woman
had profaned the Mysteries. Once more
the ravening mob-voices rose, demanding
blood; and Phryne, who had revived to
the point of demanding luxuries and com¬
forts in her prison, was only too thankful
when she was flung headlong into a cell
and left with bread and water—but safe
from the wild throngs who sought to tear
her into bits.
And there, for three days, she remained
in the cell, alone, uncared-for, like a wild
beast. Crowds came thronging to look
upon her, flinging mud at her through
the bars; the guards saw to it that no
actual harm was done her. To her wild
demands for comfort, assistance, an advo¬
cate, deaf ears were turned.
Now, for the first time, her audacious
spirit failed her. Gone was all the
glamour of life; she crouched in a corner,
unable to escape the mud that spattered
her, the curses that rained upon her. And
in her heart dwelt fear, deeper and deep¬
er, as the throngs outside her cell door
voiced savage demands for her life-blood.
O N the third evening, when there was
no one else by, a guard thrust a stool
into her cell, gave her the evening ration
of bread and water, and announced a
visitor.
Hyperides entered, seated himself on
the stool, and greeted her with a low
chuckle.
“Well, my dear, things seem going ex¬
cellently ! ”
“You too?” she retorted. “I thought
you were a friend. ‘Excellently!’ Then
you too are against me.”
She burst into tears, sobs shaking her
mud-spattered body.
“Nonsense!” said the lawyer calmly.
“I’ve been appointed to defend you. To¬
morrow at sunrise, you come before the
tribunal of the Heliasts for sentence.”
She quivered. “Tomorrow!”
For three days
she remained in
the cell, alone,
like a wild beast.
99
“Precisely. Of course, as you’re well
aware, no human being can save you.”
In a paroxysm of terror, she flung her¬
self at his feet, begging for help—a knife,
a vial of poison, anything to save her
from the torture.
“Suppose,” asked Hyperides, “I do
what no other man on earth can do? I
trust you recall our conversation on the
subject.”
I N the dim light from the torch that
burned outside the door, she stared at
him. He remained inscrutable, calm, a
trifle quizzical.
“Do you really mean it ?” she asked in
a low voice.
He reached out and touched her head,
with caressing fingers.
“My dear, I’ve never ceased to love
you. As you, in your heart, love me.
Come, confess it! ”
“Yes, Hyperides,” she said humbly.
“It is true. I can tell you now; if you
can save me from my own mad folly, I am
yours, and yours only. But it’s so hope¬
less! You can’t do it.”
“Let’s see about that,” he returned.
“You’ve done something that’ll go down
in history; luckily for yourself, you
learned so little about the actual Mys¬
teries that there’s no particular reason to
shut your mouth with a gravestone. For
three days you’ve lain here while the
people have worn out their rage. By to¬
morrow they’ll be ready to swing around,
given the proper publicity and stimulus.
I have fifty men ready to go about town
tonight and start the campaign in your
favor. The pendulum of public opinion
—you remember the stories about Aris¬
tides, of course.”
“Public opinion! Who cares about
that?” she demanded wildly.
“I do; I don’t want to see you ban¬
ished,” he rejoined. “It would be incon¬
venient if I had to go into exile with you.
The publicity I’ll get from winning this
case will bring me all the paying law
business in Athens, my dear.”
“By winning it ?” she repeated. “You
mean—you can save me?”
“Of course. Up to this point, I’ve
handled matters adroitly,” he said com¬
placently, “if I do say it myself. Now,
in the morning, I want you to look your
best.”
“Look my best!” A bitter laugh es¬
caped her. “All Athens has stared at me
for three days in this pigsty. I haven’t
even a clean peplos; how can I look my
best?”
“That’s my business,” said Hyperides.
“I’ll have your slaves here before day¬
break, with whatever clothes you direct;
they’ll bathe you, arrange your hair, per¬
fume you, see that you’re at your best and
loveliest. There’s no mark from the blow
on your face?”
“I think not,” she replied. “My nose
is still sore, but the swelling’s gone
down.”
“It was a great stroke of luck that I
was able to wangle the sunrise session of
court,” he said thoughtfully. “You see,
the judges are nearly all elderly fellows.
They’ll be up early; they’ll come to court
with the memory of their wives all too
clear-cut in mind; frowsy, sleepy women,
mussed and disheveled, fit to give any
man the horrors. Then they see you,
fresh and lovely as rosy-fingered Aurora
herself—”
“Oh, stop it,” broke in Phryne impa¬
tiently. “You can’t win this case with
a pretty face, Hyperides. It’s too
serious.”
“I know it. That’s why I intend to
demand the death-penalty.”
“You— What?" Her voice broke.
“By the gods, are you crazy?”
“Crazy like a fox, my dear,” he said,
chuckling softly. “You’ll see! ”
“Well, what’s the defense to be?” she
demanded. “I can’t lie out of it. You
can’t pull any sob-story about a dying
mother and the innocent virtue of a young
girl, the way you did in the Simonides
affair; I’m too well known. What line
are you going to work on?”
“That, my dear, is my business,” he
replied coolly. “My entire plea will con¬
sist of five words, and they’ll win the
case. What are they? No, by the gods!
I’d not breathe them into the ear of
Apollo himself! They stay locked in my
own brain, until they’re uttered.” He
rose. “Now get all the sleep you can,
and trust to me, my dear.”
He stooped, touched his lips to her
forehead, and strode out.
Somehow he inspired confidence; his
vivid personality had an appeal, an over¬
powering influence like magic itself. For
the first time Phryne dropped off to a
slumber that was undisturbed by night¬
mares of blood and vengeance and horror.
She slept, and slept soundly.
W ITH earliest dawn, terror returned
as she was roused by guards; but
it was only her two tiring-slaves, who
greeted her with tears of joy. They had
brought everything, and they fell to work
100
Drawn by John Richard Flanagan
She danced for them as never before had she danced, while old Statiros
the Stoic wheezed a drunken melody on the pipes, and Idomeneos
cocked a wreath askew on his ruffled gray locks.
101
with soap and water and cosmetics and
perfumes, shampooing her hair into gold¬
en luster, going over every inch of her
glorious body, and rubbing her into a
tingle and a glow of color.
Just as the guards came to take her
before the tribunal in the rising sun, they
were done. Her gossamer blue robe with
the silver doves was drawn over her head
as usual, and between the steel-clad
guards, she set out on her fateful journey.
Her guards were silent; the streets and
housetops were silent, although jammed
with people. She had shrunk from the
thought of this procession, past the Pom-
peion to the Eleusinian Gate, outside
which the tribunal sat. She had antici¬
pated new curses, new yells for vengeance.
Instead, there came only silence, and low
whispers. Once or twice a shrill voice
was lifted against her, but it died quickly.
She perceived that Hyperides had been
right. Public opinion had swung around
—helped, no doubt, by the fifty men
working hard the previous night with
suggestion and clever words.
N OW the huge court of the Pompeion
was past; here was the city gate.
Outside, the high marble tribunal was
shut off from the crowds by armed
guards. At sight of it, Phryne’s steps
for a moment; then she recovered and
went on.
The judges were waiting; the prose¬
cutor and Hyperides were waiting. A
bailiff led her to her position in front of
the judges, grave and elderly citizens, for
the most part. The sun had just mounted
the eastern sky, and the flood of level
golden light pierced through that veiled
and humble figure, lightly revealing the
tender lines below the blue transparent
robe. The judges stirred a little, leaned
forward. Court was opened.
Hyperides came forward, greeted
Phryne, and spoke under his breath.
“All’s going well. Now, for the love
of the gods, don’t open your mouth! No
matter what I say or do, keep quiet! ”
“Agreed,” she said in a low voice.
He turned, and went to the prosecutor,
and spoke rapidly. The dour, harsh-eyed
prosecutor stared at him in amazement,
then frowned.
“Very well, Hyperides. But if this is
one of your damned shyster tricks, look
out I ”
“It is not. I swear by Apollo,”—and
Hyperides lifted his hand toward the sun,
spieaking earnestly,—“to do exactly as
I say.”
The other grunted assent. Together
they approached the judges, and the
prosecutor spoke out.
“Your honors, if it please you, we’ve
agreed to waive prosecution. Counsel for
the defense stipulates that there is no
defense, that his client pleads guilty, and
that he himself will demand the death-
penalty. Under these circumstances, I
am content to save the time of the court
by permitting him to speak—reserving,
however,” he added with dour suspicion,
“the right to object.”
“You shall have no cause to object,
upon my honor! ” said Hyperides.
The judges conferred, and promptly
agreed in the matter. The clerk of court
then read the accusation. It set forth—
and it made undeniably ghastly hearing
for Phryne—the crimes of the accused
against gods and men, by her deliberate
profanation of the sublime Mysteries.
No words were spared in describing her
offense against the state and its institu¬
tions, ana against the gods and against
religion.
The chief justice turned to Hyperides.
“Does your client plead guilty or not
guilty ?”
“My lord,” said Hyperides, “it was es¬
tablished in the case of Epaminondas PS.
Glauco, in the fourth year of the Mace¬
donian regime, that in any case involving
sacrilege, counsel is not allowed to plead
for his client. The prisoner must plead
in person.”
The chief justice nodded and turned to
Phryne. “Prisoner, you have heard the
accusations. Do you plead guilty or not
guilty ?”
P HRYNE looked up, startled and con¬
fused and bewildered. The urbane
smile of Hyperides became almost a grin,
as she threw back the corner of the robe,
baring her lovely face.
“Why — why — yes, I’m guilty, of
cotirse,” floated the soft music of her
voice, more beautiful than ever in its agi¬
tation. “I’m sorry, with all my heart.
The fault was—”
“That will do,” said the chief justice.
“The plea is guilty. Counsel will pro¬
ceed. We shall have no need for the as¬
sembled witnesses, I take it?”
“There is no evasion, no excuse, no
denial,” said Hyperides; and the prose¬
cutor nodded agreement. Then, with a
glance at the faces of the judges, Hyper¬
ides stepped to the side of Phryne and
turned, ignoring her pleading, terrified
eyes, her pallid features.
102
THE WORLD WAS THEIR STAGE
“Citizens of Athens,” he said abruptly,
his voice ringing in the tense silence, “I
shall attempt no oratory to confuse the
issue. Here, it is clear-cut. Indeed, as
a pious and devout servant of the gods, I
have no choice. I believe that you are
with me, and that every citizen of Athens
is with me, in feeling that this woman
should suffer death.”
He paused. Phryne swayed slightly,
half opened her mouth as though to pro¬
test, then remembered his admonition
and remained silent. But from the ser¬
ried throng outside the line of armed
guards arose a swift tumult of cries—and
Hyperides gave them full time to regis¬
ter on the judges.
“No, not She is in the service of
Venus! She’s too beautiful to die! No I
We’re not with you. No, not”
Urbanely disdainful, Hyperides went
on with his marvelous smooth eloquence:
“Athenians, there is no argument, no
evasion. Banishment or exile cannot be
the sentence in a case of sacrilege. One
penalty, and one penalty alone, can be
imposed: that of death. As citizens and
judges, you may of course acquit this
woman; but if you find her guilty, you
must decree her to death. And,” he added
impressively, “I"demand it! I demand
nothing less—”
As though the words were a signal, the
crowded masses broke into catcalls and
boos. These grew, from scattered voices
into wildly vociferous yells of dissent.
Hyperides seemed not at all astonished
by this evidence of popular indignation;
perhaps he had even expected it. When
the tumult was silenced, he went on:
“Citizens, judges, there is no more to
say. I demand that you sentence this
woman to death; I demand that you de¬
cree her to be given the cup of hemlock,
that her body may become black and
bloated and misshapen. I demand that
you decree her to be pierced by the sword.
I demand,”—and his voice became sten¬
torian,—“I demand that you sentence her
to death, if—”
He reached out suddenly, caught hold
of Phryne’s blue robe, and with one move¬
ment jerked it clear of her body.
“If you have the heart! ” he concluded,
and stepped away.
S O unexpected was his action, that it
was absolutely stupefying. Phryne,
left nude except for her golden sandals,
uttered a low, bewildered cry. She stood
in utmost confusion for a moment, the
level rays of the morning sun transfusing
all the exquisite lines of her body into
golden glory.
No actress could have assumed this
posture of affrighted modesty; it ren¬
dered her a thousandfold more beautiful,
more lovely. She reached out her arms
with an imploring word, a gesture of ap¬
peal, but Hyperides snatched the robe
away from her reaching hands. The
touch of pantomime was so genuine, so
graceful, so obviously unstaged, that one
surging breath of awe and delight burst
from all the crowded citizens, and swelled
into a roar of acclaim and applause, a roar
that swept up and was sustained.
Hyperides, with one glance at the faces
of the judges, handed back the blue robe,
and Phryne donned it in haste. The
judges were hastily conferring. Hyper¬
ides turned away, and was met by the
prosecutor, who came close to him and
spoke in a low, intense voice.
“You dirty chiseler! Some day I’ll
get you for this!”
Hyperides bowed slightly, mockingly,
“My dear counselor,” he said with his
cynic smile, “you should praise the gods
daily, because they bestow upon you the
inestimable gift of hope! Listen—there’s
the verdict!”
His words were drowned in a roar of
applause and delight from the crowd.
T HE roar died; silence fell. Here was
the garden once more, the picture on
the easel, the studio all around; I was
back in the present, staring at Peder
Cavanagh. He had actually bewitched
me, or I had bewitched myself under the
magic of his voice and personality.
“Like it?” he asked, smiling.
I drew a deep breath. “You’re a genius,
confound you! Why, you really brought
that slick lawyer to life; you made him a
flesh-and-blood person; you created a
shyster and made me like him!”
Cavanagh grinned.
“A shyster lawyer is human, like you
or me; what’s to prevent liking him ? As
a rule, he’s quite a popular fellow, except
among the pompous stuffed shirts who
hide their own dirty work behind legal
technicalities. Boy, when it comes to a
choice between a hypocrite and a con¬
fessed trickster, give me the trickster
every time!”
Even when Peder Cavanagh is ethical¬
ly wrong, you have to agree with him.
The second story in this series, “The Daughter of the Moon,” is scheduled for our
forthcoming May issue.
103
zJ\tonkey zjfyfoney
By Kenneth Perkins
Illustrated by L. R. Gustavson
I T was best not to put a finger in
anyone else’s business in that sea¬
port. But the girl was an American
and very frightened about some¬
thing. She kept wandering from the
flower-banked veranda to the desk in
the lobby.
The brown house-boy at the desk said:
“Your father just sent a message that
he’ll be back in a few minutes. Nothing
has happened.”
A man stepped from behind a great
potted fern from where, half-hidden, he
had been watching her. He manipulated
the cigar-cutter, then said casually: “I’d
tell your father to take the next boat
back to the States, if you asked me.”
The girl flared around at him, her
blue gaze level and hard. “But I didn’t
happen to ask, you, whoever you are.”
“Sorry. None of my business.”
He went out to the veranda, where he
flopped to a rattan chair with a book,
his thin grim face flushed wet because
of the heat—and also because of that
look with which the girl had burned him.
The book was in Spanish and treated of
Central American flowers. He had picked
it up from a table, for he wanted to
read something, and this was as good
a subject as any. But after a sentence
or two his eyes wandered.
They rested on the most vivid spot, the
girl’s hair. She had followed him.
“I guess I was pretty rude,” she said..
“It’s because my nerves are so jumpy.”
He stood up, dumb for a moment.
America seemed very close with this
straight-shouldered, clear-eyed girl fac¬
ing him. She belonged in open free air,
not in this scented heat. He thought of
his little sister coming to him once,
frightened because a big dog was snoop¬
ing around her playhouse.
“What did you mean?” she asked.
“Just what I said. It’s a bad town.
I heard your father had come ashore
yesterday gunning for a man named
Carter. I know Carter. Your dad will
be gunned down first.”
She measured him, breathing hard.
He was tall and rough and young. “I
guess I’ll tell you why I gave you a
cold shoulder. All the white men in this
town, I mean the Americans, are either
gun-fighters or on the beach. That’s
what I was warned when we left the
ship—the freighter out there. I was told
not to pick up with anybody.”
“My name’s Brad Pike. I had a coffee
plantation up in the mountains, which
failed.”
“On the beach, then?”
“I have my business. Right now I’m
studying the resources here to see if I
can’t recoup.” He showed her the book
on flowers. “I studied agriculture at
College. I’m more interested in botany.”
Her eyes softened. “I made quite a
mistake. You don’t look like a student
of botany to me.”
“It’s just a side-line.”
“You see, I thought you might be like
all the rest of them, fighting mad, hot¬
headed fools. I met some on board who
got off at Honduras. They did nothing
but talk of guns till I’m sick of hearing
the word. But I reckon”—her eyes went
down to his hips—“you aren’t a fighting
man or you’d be wearing a gun like the
rest.”
“No need of a gun except at the banana
stations, or higher up in the coffee belt—
just for show, to make the pickers step.”
T HE doubt and strain left her eyes
abruptly. She was like his little
sister again, after being told the dog
wouldn’t bite. She stepped closer as if
to reach for his hands.
“I need some one to help me—need
him badly. Some one to talk to.”
“I’m ready.”
“You’ve got some sense. You know
that shooting up folks isn’t the way to
get what you want. My father came all
the way from Texas to get Carter. He
gave his savings to Carter, so we have
nothing left but the cow ranch, and no
cows. Carter said he’d made a lot down
104
You can’t always tell a fighting
man by his appearance—as witness
this spirited story.
here in sugar and bananas. But he hasn’t
cleared an acre of ground in four years.
He just kept the money.”
“An old Central American custom.”
“Tell my father he can’t collect that
debt. Tell him we’ve got to go home.
Make him go.”
A house-boy came out to the veranda
and told Brad Pike that he had visitors
waiting for him in his room.
He caught the girl staring at him.
Again he had that strange new hunger—
for a home. The confident smile she
gave him started thrills in his body. The
sounds in the thick air changed for him:
The low rumble of the volcano across
the Bay, the jingle of mules’-bells out in
the street, the marimba in the saloon
next door, were all woven into a new
melody, peaceful and simple.
He said casually: “I’ll get your dad
out. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not—any more.”
Upstairs in his room Brad Pike found
two hot-eyed young Creoles waiting for
him. One had a scarred fattish cheek
and bulging glasses which magnified the
patriotic frenzy of his eyes. The other
had the oval pensive face of a poet.
Pike said: “The guns will be in Todos
Santos before dark.”
“But where is your boat?”
“At Toucan River, hidden in the man¬
grove swamps.”
“Magnificent! ” The poet had a straw-
covered bottle and poured wine into thick
105
glasses at the washstand. “But it’s
twenty miles from the river to here.”
“I said the guns will be here,” Pike
was looking out of the window, un¬
interested. He remembered the girl’s
opinion: “You don’t look like a fighting
man.” It made him see red. The color
distilled itself in his mind and concen¬
trated on two crimson flowers at the
seaward end of the patio. He could see
them from his window, and they made
perfect targets. So she thought he was
only interested in flowers!
H E reached for his gun, which hung
holstered on the mosquito-net post.
Needless to say, he had not strapped it
on when he went down to the lobby.
Those red flowers impressed him as a
pretty trick in marksmanship. But he
checked himself, remembering that the
girl trusted him “because he had some
sense.”
“Here’s the manifest,” he said absent-
mindedly, “and the expense for the trip.
I used up all your money, you can see.”
The poetic one looked over the items,
the consignment of firearms purchased in
New Orleans, pay to the crew, bribes to
the train-dispatcher, engineer and brake-
men of the banana railway.
“And your commission?”
“I deposited it in a New Orleans
bank. I’ve learned my lesson about
bringing gold into this country.”
“Very wise, Sefior Pike, especially
since you will probably be arrested be¬
fore the afternoon is over. But don’t
worry about that. We will get you out
with your own guns, when the revolution
starts. It can’t fail now!”
“Fail!” The man with glasses snorted.
“Why, since you were seen in Todos
Santos yesterday, the Administration’s
bonds have fallen twenty points. They
know you are outfitting our army. Your
health, beloved friend! ”
“To liberty and honor,” the poet said,
handing him a tumbler.
They drank, and the one with the
spectacles said: “You had no trouble?”
He put a fat arm about Pike’s shoulder.
“The Coast Patrol tried to board us
when we were hauling past San Luis
Volcano.”
“But no casualties?”
“Oh, well,” Pike shrugged. “A few.
They stood off fast when I gave it to
’em.”
“They ran away when they knew it
was Senor Pike shooting at them!” the
poet said fervently. “They know, as all
of us know, that Senor Brad Pike is the
greatest gun-fighter of the Coast!”
They left him to finish the bottle
while they went down by the outside
stairs and prowled through the green
shadows of the patio. . . .
When Pike went down to the veranda,
he saw a bony man with a roan mustache
talking to the girl. The hot blue eyes of
both, the straightness of their backs, the
gentleness of their drawl, were perhaps
the only points in common between this
gaunt, burned cattleman and the fragile
imitation of his flesh and blood, his
daughter Hallie.
“This is Mr. Pike, Dad. He’s going
to help us. He knows all about Todos
Santos and Carter, and everything that’s
going on. He’s all right.”
They shook hands hard. “Reckon I’ll
need help. Carter’s sicked the Customs
on me. They say my passport’s no good
because of what I put down for ‘Object
of travel,’ A new way to sagebrush a
stranger. Have a drink? They say I’ve
got to go back home on the same boat.
J’lj smoke up this whole damned town!
By the way, where’s your gun?”
“He doesn’t like guns any more than
I do,” Hallie said. “He’s here studying
plants, flowers and things like that.
There are some men who aren’t always
on the prod, Dad.”
Roan Jackson’s mouth went down at
the side as if to say something under¬
handed. “Flowers! Say, listen: I thought
my daughter said you were going to
help mp.”
“You can't get a man like Carter with
a gun,” Pike said. “Better play his own
game.”
“I’m not a crook.”
“You’re dealing with one. He’s used
your money for what they call a ‘run¬
ning account’ down here. He gets twelve
per cent on his bank balance, and loans
the Administration good chunks against
the export duty 'on sugar. He’s the
collector himself, so he can’t lose. He
collects in gold and pays his own bills
in scrip. He’s got any pit boss in your
Texas baile houses backed off the map.”
J ACKSON unflapped a holster. He had
two guns on his bony thighs. He drew
one, a weapon agleam with oil, its
clean bore shining like silver.
“I got one card to deal in any game
like that,” he said, and fired at that
little red flower on the beach. The
psychology of seeing red had directed
his anger at that same perfect target.
The report shattered the dark air,
sending up a flutter of pigeons and
parrots, summoning pop-eyed house-boys
from the doors of the American Club
Hotel.
“Dad, you’re simply crazy!”
“If you could do that, son,” Roan
Jackson said out of the side of his
mouth, “I’d take you on as a pardner.
But being you’re only interested in
flowers as such, you’re not much use to
me.”
The flower was not there any more.
But there was the second one, ten yards
farther—a perfect bull’s-eye against the
rolling white of the surf beyond. Pike’s
fingers itched. He would like to show
this old blowfly something. But it was
not the way to build that home he had
imagined. He had sworn that he was to
be, from now on, the man Hallie Jackson
thought he was. He lit a cigar to calm
his fingers.
The patio, before they were aware of
it, was filled with barefooted soldiers
who looked as if they had slung their
shoulder-holsters and khaki jackets over
their pajamas. One had a green coat
with a lot of frayed gold braid.
Roan Jackson, with his daughter in
his arms, jumped behind the adobe arch.
He drew his other gun. The hotel
manager came out waddling, wringing
his fat hands.
“It is nothing, Senor Capitan!” he
pleaded, running down to the soldiers
in the patio. “My guests, Americanos,
they are just showing how a pistol will
shoot. Shooting into the surf. No harm.”
“It is not for that, that I am here,”
the man in the green coat and braid
said, without removing his cigar. “I am
here to arrest th e Americano, Brad Pike.”
Roan Jackson and his daughter turned
blankly to Pike. Roan still had both
his guns out.
“Hear that, son ?”
“Sure, I heard it. They want to arrest
me.”
“But what for?” Hallie gasped.
“Never mind what for!” her father
snapped back. “He’s an American, and
so am I! They’re spreading a pretty big
loop—the saddle-colored warts! Here,
son, take this iron. If they step on this
veranda, we’ll salt ’em. You get out of
the way, Hallie. Run upstairs. We’re
going to have a little party. Men only.”
Pike felt the gun thrust into his fist.
The balance of it sent a pleasant vibra¬
tion up his forearm and into his shoulder
and down his chest like a drink. It
would be fun to play with the Com-
mandante’s soldiers with a pat hand like
this! The old cattleman, of course,
could pick off six. Having but one gun
left, he would doubtless fan.
A feeling of wildness raked Brad
Pike’s nerves. His eyes snapped sidewise
at the scarecrow squad: Two fat old
men, two negroes, three boys, a runt.
Alone, Pike himself could drop them
like bowling-pins.
But he caught the terrified look on
Hallie’s face, and so he said: “There’ll
be no fighting, Mr. Jackson.”
“Well, dad burn my soul, what sort
of a sheep-man are you, anyway ? I’ll
curl ’em up myself. Just stand behind
my back and see they don’t hit me in the
suspenders.”
“I said I wasn’t fighting, Mr. Jackson.”
107
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
Pike gave back the gun and stepped
down to the patio. The Captain saluted,
respectfully removing his cigar, although
he had to hold it with his saluting hand.
“It is with great regret, Senor Pike—”
“Cut the speeches, Capitan, and keep
your voice down when you answer me.”
Pike spoke so no one else could hear.
“Why arrest me when I’ve already
landed the guns? If you find my yawl,
you’ll find no cargo.”
“It is my duty only to take you to the
Commandante.”
“I want to see Carter first.”
“Why, certainly, sefior. We will march
that way, and perhaps stop at the Casino
for a drink. You, I, my squad.”
Pike sent a house-boy to get his hat.
Waiting, he looked back at the veranda.
The girl was smaller, wilted all of a
sudden. He knew how bewildered and
helpless she was. With her father ready
to fight at the drop of a hat, and Brad
Pike no longer curbing him, she had
nothing to cling to. He went up to her.
“I wish you’d stay in this hotel till I
get back.”
There was excitement in her eyes.
“You’re coming back—right away?”
“Not till I’ve seen Carter about this
debt he owes you.”
Roan Jackson grinned dryly. “Think
you can bluff him?” He shook his head,
chuckling, then checked himself when
he saw Pike’s eyes turn a chilly gray.
He started pulling at his roan mustache,
wondering what there was about this ran-
ny that he could not quite make out.
W ITH the squad of ragged soldiers
lagging single file behind them,
Brad Pike and the Captain marched
across the drowsy plaza to the business
center of Todos Santos.
Chickens pecked in the street, avoid¬
ing the sleeping dogs. Naked babies
playing in the dust were packed off into
tin-roofed huts. It was significant. Their
mothers had heard doubtless that the
Americano Brad Pike was in town for a
purpose that involved smoke. Brad
Pike, it was said, was a bad hombre.
He drank. By that, one meant he drank
like an Americano. He fired at Govern¬
ment men who came to collect tribute
from him. He went to sea in a boat, and
the Coast Patrol stayed out of his way.
If a wheel were crooked, he would break
it over a dealer’s head.
A peanut-vendor slipped out of the
way and into a saloon. A crillo girl ran
into an alley. A seller of cactus candy
drove his burro to the far end of the
street.
The air, pregnant with fear and the
worship of courage, excited Brad Pike.
It was the sort of air this chameleon
lived on. He wanted action. But he
knew there was to be no fight here; and
knowing it, his appetite was sharpened.
For of all men in Todos Santos, Carter
was the one Brad Pike would have liked
most of all to shoot down.
If you wanted to get a concession or
to open a hotel free from police raids,
or to import slot-machines or whisky,
Carter was the man to see. His office
There was excitement in her eyes.
coming back—right away?”
MONKEY MONEY
was in an adobe shack with the sign
“Todos Santos National Bottle Works”
hung to its wooden awning. Carter had
a monopoly on bottled water. You went
thirsty or went to pieces drinking hard
liquor, unless you paid Carter.
They let Pike go into his office. The
guard of honor sprawling on the adobe
steps, lit cigars; two cast dice; one went
to an open saloon; another dozed.
Carter was at his desk with a palm-
leaf fan. “Heard you were in town, Pike.
Good old Pike! It’s swell to see you
again. Drink?” Carter was fattish, in¬
gratiating, pretending to be every white
man’s lasting pal. He got out cigars and
rum. Any visit was a chance for gam¬
bling, and if the stakes were big and
the cards could be stacked, Carter
gambled.
Pike plunged.
“Say, listen, Carter, I’m in a jam:
Everybody in town knows why I’m here,
and those breeds at the door think
they’re taking me to the Commandante.
I want your help.”
“Tell me how I can help you.” Carter
really meant: “What sort of a proposi¬
tion are you prepared to make?”
“Tell that squad to beat it. Tell ’em
you’ll fix it with the Commandante.”
“How?”
“Tell him you’ve got me in a trap,
and I’ve got to come to terms.”
Carter lighted his calabash, grinning.
“Which means, I take it, that you aren’t
satisfied with the present market for
your firearms.”
Pike answered steadily: “No.”
C ARTER went out and dismissed the
squad.
He came back. “Now what?”
“I’ll ask you something first: Since it
is known I’m supplying arms to fight
the Administration, what’s this last bond-
issue worth?”
“Ten or fifteen.”
“Gold?”
“By closing time you can buy ’em
with local currency.”
“In other words, monkey money.”
“Better stick to your gun-running,
Pike. Not finance.”
“Wait a minute. Suppose you buy
every bond you can lay your hands on.
Then the center of the postal telegraph
system up there in the presidential
palace gets the news that I landed a big
consignment of guns, but you made a
dicker for ’em. What happens? The
whole country hears of it. A rebellion is
nipped. Foreign money loosens up, im¬
pressed with the Administration. Money
can be borrowed to pay off the old loan.
The bonds go up to twenty-thirty points.
You’ve got a million dollars’ worth of
them which you bought for monkey
money. You clean up.”
"CURE, but—” Carter studied him
O through pipe-smoke. He got the
idea before it was put in words. “I see
what you mean. You double-cross these
guys who you’ve promised the guns to.”
“I knew you’d get it. There’s to be
no revolution. You buy my guns and
save the country—the Administration, I
mean. The Presidente has time then to
send a formation down here with bands
and such, to meet a lot of unarmed
rebels. Not a gun is fired. It’s a coup.
You get a big post as a reward—collector
of forced loans, internal revenue, any¬
thing you think up.”
Carter was already thinking. It was
an old game. It had been done before,
and it had worked. But there might be
a trick somewhere.
“I’ll want to see your consignment and
check it.”
“And I’ll want to see your money.”
Pike computed the interest on forty
thousand for four years, adding it to the
principal Carter had filched from old
Roan Jackson. “Fifty grand.”
Carter raised his brows and nodded as
if this, although considerable, was to be
expected. “Of course,” he conceded, his
calabash gurgling, “I could get it in
scrip.”
“I’m taking gold.”
Carter threw up his bloated hands.
“Are you crazy!”
Brad Pike finished his drink and got
up as if this ended the interview. “I
suppose I’ll have to lie low, since I’m
still subject to arrest?”
Carter knocked out his pipe, thinking.
“Where’ll you hide—for the rest of the
day?”
“I have a room at the American Club.”
“I can’t meet you there. An old nut
from the States is stopping there. Thinks
he can collect a debt.”
“Sure. I met him,” Pike said casually.
“Guy from Texas. Fighting guy. Plain
nuts.”
“Hang around in back of Morales’
saloon. I’ll see that the police don’t
bother you.”
In saying this Carter practically ad¬
mitted that Brad Pike’s proposition had
much to be said for it.
Pike did not go directly to Morales’
saloon. Confident that Carter would
keep the police off, he returned to the
American Club.
The grinding of winches and banana-
conveyors on the block-long pier, the
banging exhaust of the banana train as it
crossed the savannas and rattled into
‘town, drummed on Brad Pike’s nerves,
as sounds will upon a man who is sup¬
pressed. He went into the comparative
quiet of the patio. Roan Jackson and
his daughter were on the veranda, the
former pacing, rolling brown cigarettes.
“I’ve seen Carter, and I’ve got a
hunch.” Pike looked at the girl. “I can
help your dad, Miss Jackson, if you
leave him to me. I mean, you better go
back to the ship.”
“She’s going back. That part is sense,”
Roan Jackson said. “But what else are
you telling us?”
The girl jumped up from her rocker.
“I’m not going back without you, Dad.”
“All your dad has to do is go up to
his room and wait till I bring him his
money,” Pike said. “Getting gold out of
this country is a hair-line play. And
with a limb in the way, at that. You’re
the limb.”
Roan Jackson pulled down one end
of his mustache. His sun-squinted eyes
stuck on Pike. He thought he knew men.
This one reminded him of many he had
dealt with when he was a sheriff in
Texas. He looked like a fellow who’d
always be riding with the wild bunch,
looking not for flowers but for trouble.
“Whatever your game is, I don’t know,”
he said. “But I’ll take a chance.”
“You mean you want Dad to come
back here without mel” Hallie said
helplessly.
“What’s wrong with that? The Cus¬
toms men told him to go back on the
same ship, didn’t they? Well, I’m guar¬
anteeing to bring him aboard in time.”
“You mean without any fight ?”
“I kept him out of one fight today.”
“If you promise that—”
She tried to smile, and he saw her
swallow hard. She put out her hand.
T HE four-o’clock banana train rattled
across the savannas, sending up flocks
of white birds on the seaward side, red
and green birds on the other. Brad Pike
watched the string of fruit-laden box¬
cars slant from the coastal plane into the
town and past a street of saloons. He
walked down to the railroad yards as
the train squeaked to a stop.
Two men came out of a cantina, one
with bulging glasses, the other with eyes
that breathed the divine fire of poetry
and patriotism.
“This is the train?” they inquired, in
suppressed fervor.
“Not yet. The next one. The train
crew’s fixed—the engineer, who’s an
American named Tarkey, and three negro
brakemen. They’ll see that the freight
isn’t unloaded. You’ll find the gun-cases
at the bottom of each car, with half a
carload of bananas covering them.” He
changed the subject: “I’m thirsty.”
They went to a saloon and all three
ate a spiky fruit with black seeds and
milky meat that tasted like ice-cream.
“There’ll be a procession of students
and stevedores after dark,” the poet said.
He had another grass-covered bottle,
which he opened, filling tumblers.
His companion said: “The procession
is in honor of San Pedro Tomas, the
patron saint of seamen. We form at the
Cathedral, cross the Plaza and march
into the track yards. Here we put out
our torches. The band will play a hymn.
From that moment on, our country is
free! ”
He put his arm around Pike’s hard
shoulder. The poet gave him a glass.
P IKE’S mind was inflamed by this close
contact with them. It made him re¬
member how, long ago, he had come to
Todos Santos in peace; how he had re¬
fused to pay a forced loan; how they
raised the price of labor, and in the
picking season supplied him no labor at
all; how they burned a building one day,
cut down some of his trees the next. He
had killed two men.
It was over now—seven years in
Central America. They must have seen
the hard tyvist of his smile.
“You, senor, are avenged for your coffee
finca!” The poet drank and then turned
to the one with spectacles. “And you
are avenged for the torture inflicted on
your eyes, Senor Rufii.o.”
Rufino and Brad Pike drank to the
poet. “You are avenged for what the
Presidente did to your sister, Senor
Xavier! ”
Then Pike crossed the railroad yards
to Morales’ store. Morales sold stucco
saints and rum. Pike took a drink of
chocolate at the open bar and passed
on into the house itself. From a back
window he could see the mule tramways
as they passed every half-hour on their
jingling journey to the pier-head, and
110
came back. Roan Jackson, returning
from the freighter, sat on the crosswise
bench of the open tramcar, alone.
Brad Pike breathed deep and long.
With Hallie Jackson safe on board, he
could have some fun. But no, he re¬
membered a promise he had made to her.
And he remembered a home—a new,
strangely beautiful house emerging out
of the smoke of his past.
W ITH the ebbing of the day’s heat,
Todos Santos awoke to the eve¬
ning’s grind of phonographs. In a saloon,
a marimba hummed its more nerve-ting¬
ling melody. Negro stevedores mean¬
dered, laughing, one booming out his
blues. They stopped at the open bars
for molasses rum.
The freighter shook the air with her
hoarse whistle: and the banana-con¬
veyors, for the first time in that drowsy
day, ceased beating time. The freighter’s
cargo was aboard. But there was yet one
more banana-train coming from the haze
of mountains, bumping over the battered
rail-ends into the Todos Santos yards.
Carter came about then. His white
drill was wilted, blubber stuffing it like
a sausage, wet brown in the fatter spots.
Without being told, Brad Pike knew he
had spent a feverish afternoon, dashing
from one “moneda” shop to the other in
his last-minute attempt to buy up all the
Administration bonds in the town, tele¬
graphing to the mountains, to towns on
the Pacific littoral, to the richer fincas.
“Where’s your consignment?” Carter
asked after they had ordered rum and
closed the doors.
“Where’s your money?”
“Ready to be delivered anywhere you
say.”
“Send it up to my hotel room. I want
to get it aboard the Orinoco somehow.”
This interested Carter. “I see. If you
stayed in the country, you’d be shot,
wouldn’t you? By these fool students.”
No, that was not Pike’s reason for
going back to the States. But he only
said: “I’m sick of eating butter made of
maguey worms. I’m through.”
Carter filled his calabash and lit up,
his red face screwed in thought. “I shall
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
have to fix it with the Customs. I’ll see
that they close down between—let's say
six and six-thirty. There’ll be no one on
the pier to stop you. And now,” he said,
puffing, “the guns?”
P IKE took him out to the track yards.
Night had fallen. Charcoal-vendors
and ox-carts were taking the mountain
road for home. Melodies thrummed in
the dank evening mists. In the track
yards the engineer was tinkering with
his motor, but with headlights off. He
looked up, astounded. Carter, in accord¬
ance with Pike’s instructions, had already
scrambled up on the last car and was
inspecting its freight with a pocket flash.
The three negro brakemen, dining on
chili and toasted squash-seeds, unfolded
their legs and prowled over to the engine.
“It’s all right, men,” Pike said in a
low voice. “Carter thinks he owns the
guns. Let him think it.”
“But he’s a legitimista /” the engineer
said, bewildered.
“What if he is? Xavier and Rufino
will be here with their mob. The guns
belong to them. See that they get them.”
“But if Carter brings soldiers—”
“He won’t. He’s playing a lone hand.”
Carter came up, pocketing his flash.
“Satisfied?” Pike asked.
Carter looked at the train-crew suspi¬
ciously. “Are these the only men who
know ?”
“Not another soul in town knows,”
the engineer said vigorously.
“I’ll want the train switched up to the
yard-limit post in front of my ware¬
house,” Carter said.
The engineer and brakemen looked at
Pike. He said innocently: “Better wait
till the town’s gone to bed.”
“Good idea,” Carter admitted. “Those
damned students are getting up a parade,
and the town will be running wild, fire¬
crackers for a saint, and parades. I’ll
stay away from here till midnight.”
“Then you won’t bump into any
trouble,” Pike said.
Carter offered his hand. Pike wanted
very much to knock him down. He knew
well enough that Carter would not let
him get out of the country with fifty
thousand gold. He would pay it, of
course; and then like a Presidente, get
it back by a tax, a forced loan, or by
the simpler method of robbery. Pike’s
fist was doubled when he held it out,
but he opened it and shook Carter’s hand.
It was a farewell gesture to Todos San¬
tos and the old smoky life.
In his room at the American Club he
waited until Carter’s private secretary
and a mozo arrived with an alligator-
skin satchel. He looked into it, saw the
paper-covered bars of gold-pieces, broke
one open. He dismissed the carriers,
buckled on his gun, then went down the
whitewashed hall to Roan Jackson’s
room.
“Put this stuff in your suitcases and
get out.”
Old Jackson gaped. “By graft! You’re
wearing a gun! Is that how you bluffed
him?”
“No time for fool questions. Get out.
The Customs won’t be on the pier be¬
tween six and half-past. You’ve got
twenty minutes.” Both men were lifting
the heavy little bars, stuffing them into
shirts, shoes, slippers. “You won’t have
any trouble. If anyone gets stopped,
it’ll be me.”
“If that happens, count on me, son.”
“Wait a minute! ” Pike said in alarm.
“You’ll walk straight to that ship. I
promised your daughter I’d get you
aboard safe.”
“I said you can count on me. Feel like
palavering about the subject?” Roan
Jackson put out his horny hand. Pike
shook it, making a wish. The grip told
him that he and old Roan Jackson be¬
longed to the same fraternity. If a fight
came each could count on the other. And
each would enjoy it!
Pike watched the old cowman bow¬
leg it out of the hotel with two mozos
packing his luggage. Roan took a tram¬
way, and Pike walked. They got to the
pier at about the same time, Pike never
letting the old fellow out of his sight.
I T was dark; and the waterfront of To-
dos Santos had no lights except the
fireflies and the phosphorescence of the
surf. But Roan and his mozos reached
the small luminous world at the land¬
ward end of the pier where the night
beetles rattled in clouds about a lone
arc-light. A block inland, torches were
flaring in the plaza. A band played jazz,
then Gregorian hymns. The Orinoco
whistled a hoarse rumbling warning for
all ashore that were going ashore. In
the clamor of winches, chains, cranes,
old Roan Jackson was a figure in a
pantomime, showing his passport to a
pajama-clad guard, who spat, pretended
to read, handed it back.
Two of the crew carried his suitcases
the rest of the way to the gangplank.
But old Roan looked back.
MONKEY MONEY
Pike’s nerves were set like something
ready to spring. When he stepped off the
shells of the beach onto the wharf, he
watched every pile and hogshead and
hand-car, every shadow of palm cast by
the arc. He sensed the presence of life
by movement alone, even when the form
of life was hidden. He separated dark¬
ness and light with an almost animal
skill, discounting the lantern-flies and
stinging-ants and fruit-bats.
He ducked simultaneously with the
flash of a gun from behind a corrugated-
iron shed. The lead slug whistled through
his hat. He dropped instinctively, play¬
ing possum. Two men came out into the
light. Three others lurked, waiting.
“Don’t draw, Americano. We just
want that gold which it is contraband to
take out of our country.”
Pike had no reason to draw. They
would find nothing on him. The gold
was being packed up the gangplank a
block away, unknown even to its carriers.
Old Roan Jackson had his debt paid in
full and with interest. He would be safe
on board in another moment, with his
daughter throwing her arms about his
leathery neck.
Pike himself would have the laugh on
these hold-up men and then go aboard
himself—back to the States, to a home—
a special home which he would build, a
ranch and alfalfa and cows and clear air.
B UT he forgot it for just one moment.
He forgot that the game was won,
and that he had kept the promise he had
made to Roan Jackson’s daughter. The
trouble was, Brad Pike had suppressed
himself too long.
His gun flicked out and roared brutal¬
ly through insect-clouded light. The man
who had fired at him fell to his knees as
if praying. Two others sank in the same
macabre worship.
Then old Roan Jackson came crow¬
hopping, throwing his shots with both
hands. Lead screamed out of the palm-
clumps. Pebbles at Pike’s boots leaped
like little jumping beans. Fire screwed
through his shoulder. Roan Jackson fell.
But there was silence then, except for
the frenzied buzz of insects in smoke.
Carter’s henchmen were dead or dragging
themselves off into waterfront cantinas.
Pike knew nothing of how he got on
deck. He just found himself sitting on
the wheel-box, staring vacuously at a
mate who was ripping his shirt. The
skipper stood above him, backed by
the freighter’s whole crew.
“The old gent was hit,” Pike breathed
fiercely.
“Just a crease, as he calls it.”
Pike glared in the direction of the
skipper’s cabin,' where they said Hallie
Jackson was sitting by her father’s side.
“She’ll sure give me hell, that girl I ”
“Looks like the authorities will be
wanting an explanation,” the skipper
said. “You fellows bowled over five
cholos, according to our count.”
“There are no authorities,” Pike said.
“The revolution’s started. You’ve got
your clearing-papers, Captain. Why the
devil don’t you stand off?”
H allie Jackson came out of the cabin,
her face angry white. Pike heard
the shake in her voice as if it came from
beyond the cargo mast, the gulls, the
surf and the palms.
“You said you weren’t a fighter, didn’t
you! You lied to me, and you lied to
my poor father. I heard just now what
you are!”
“Sure. I’m a gun-runner. That’s my
business.” Pike was too tired to pretend
any more. Let her have it all.
The crew, circling three deep about
him, faded in jet blackness until he
could see only the girl who had elbowed
her way into the harsh glare of light.
Even the skipper’s lobster-red face had
gone black. But her face was radiant.
“I thought I had it all doped out,”
Pike said, “how to get the old man
aboard, and no fighting. It meant going
home—the end of this game. But I’m
still in. They’ll make me a colonel. No
telling how long before Todos Santos is
free. It won’t be so bad! The guerrilla
fighting—that’s up my alley. Put me
ashore, and I’ll get back to it. I’m no
good for anything else.” He felt her
eyes as if the sun were beating on him.
“Sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.”
He flopped back into the mate’s arms
—but he heard the girl’s voice ask:
“How badly is he hurt?”
“Bad enough to make his talk about
going ashore sound pretty foolish,” the
skipper said. . . .
They were not the mate’s arms. They
were too soft, clinging bare and hot. His
head pillowed itself against her breast.
The skipper added: “We’re taking him
back to the States.”
“My father will be glad to hear that.
He says the boy was badly hurt—and he
says he is a longhorn. And he must be
right, because Dad knows a man when
he sees one!”
113
A specially attractive story of our old friend Tiny David
and the State Police.
T HERE was an air of subdued
expectancy around the barracks
of the Black Horse Troop, New
York State Police, as the after¬
noon drew to a close. The patrols re¬
turned early. The garage sergeant found
no occasion to disperse little groups,
which usually gathered to argue loud and
long concerning the problems of a trou¬
bled world. The sessions before the win¬
dow of the top sergeant, where reports
were turned in, were unusually brief.
Long before the hour when the double
doors would swing open, thereby starting
a stampede for the evening meal, the liv¬
ing-room had attracted a capacity crowd.
By virtue of early and continuous oc¬
cupancy, Lieutenant James Crosby held
down a huge armchair which commanded
the radio. Sergeant Henry Linton fough
for, and obtained, a place on the settee
above which hung a framed photograpl
of Captain Charles Field, commandinj
officer of the troop.
All the chairs were occupied, and stand
ing room was at a premium, when Lieu
tenant Edward David, quite unawan
that anything unusual was in the ail
made his appearance. Almost at ono
three chairs were offered to him. Hi
greeted this unusual politeness with sus
picion, but calmly appropriated the mos
comfortable of the offerings. Then, afte
he had arranged his somewhat bulk;
form to his own satisfaction, he unfoldei
a newspaper and buried his head in it.
Mr. Crosby glanced at the clock, the:
snapped a switch on the radio. “Wha
By Robert R. Mill
is your pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked.
“How about some war news?” asked a
rookie. *
Mr. Crosby eyed him severely.
“In the first place, we use the word
‘sir,’ even in the living-room. To con¬
tinue, there is no war-news. You can
hear about behind-the-line troop move¬
ments, occasional skirmishes of patrols,
and light artillery fire. That isn’t war,
and it is no longer news.”
“Get some music.” This suggestion
came from Mr. Linton.
Mr. Crosby raised his hand in mock
despair.
“There you are. You can’t please
everybody. Just the same, we must re¬
main neutral. The very best minds tell
us we must remain neutral. Who am I
to transgress?” He appeared to be dee
in thought. “Let me think. H’m—I hav
it.” He twirled the dial of the radic
“Good old Uncle Dudley. Clean and ir
structive. He can’t offend anybody.”
There was a rustle of anticipation a
the radio came to life. From the louc
speaker there emerged a voice filled wit
unction and assumed enthusiasm:
“Good evening, boys and girls. Her
is your Uncle Dudley again. Have yo
all been good boys and girls ? Yes, I kno 1
ou have. Well, let’s get along with or
usiness.”
“Must we have this?” asked M
David.
“We must,” said Mr. Crosby.
“Well, well, well,” continued the oil
voice. “I see we have several birthday
115
Little Edward David, away up in the
north country, has a birthday today. He
is—” There was a short pause. “Ha-
ha-ha! Edward’s father forgot to tell
me how old he is. But that doesn’t mat¬
ter. He has been a good boy all year.
He eats his vegetables. Yes indeed. He’s
grown so much in the last year that his
playmates call him Tiny. That’s fine,
Edward. But Uncle Dudley Isn’t formal.
He is going to call you Tiny just like your
pals.”
The forced laugh was repeated.
“There is a present for you, Tiny. Look
behind the settee in the living-room that
stands underneath the picture of Uncle
Charley. You’ll like it, Tiny.”
There were subdued snickers and at
least one loud guffaw. Mr. David re¬
mained buried in his newspaper. Mr.
Linton, however, arose to the occasion.
He groped beneath the settee and pulled
out a package.
"IT ERE it is,” he declared. “Right be-
n low the picture of Unc—” He
caught a fleeting glance of Captain Field
standing in the doorway. “Right where
Uncle Dudley said it would be,” he con¬
cluded rather lamely.
The voice from the loud-speaker con¬
tinued.
“That isn’t all, Tiny. Don’t go away.
Uncle Dudley has made ymi one of his
G-men. You watch for the postman.
Any day now, he will bring you a letter.
Uncle Dudley is sending you a badge and
a copy of the oath we all take.
“We have a great many G-men in your
town, Tiny. Some day Uncle Dudley is
coming up to see you. We will hold a get-
together meeting. That’s a promise.”
The radio voice paused for breath.
“He’s taking time out to kick the stu¬
dio cat,” Mr. Linton explained.
Then the voice became a trifle less
unctuous as its message grew more gen¬
eral:
“By the way, boys and girls, this might
be a good time to brush up on the main
points of our oath. Do you remember?
We all promise to love our country, and
to be good Americans. We aren’t afraid
of the cop oh the beat. No, indeed. He’s
our friend. All law-enforcement officers
are our friehds. We help them whenever
We can. We don’t pry into other peo¬
ple’s affairs and make a nuisance of our-
selvesj but we do keep our eyes open for
anything the officers should know. And
we can keep a secret, can’t we. Yes, in¬
deed. All good D-ftien can keep secrets.”
IV /f R, CROSBY snapped the switch on
IVI the radio.
“That’s about enough of that. Our
little playmate has received his message.
But why doesn’t he open his present?
Grateful little so-and-so, isn’t he?”
Mr. David looked up from his paper.
"You mustn’t expect too much from
me. Make allowances for backward chil¬
dren. My old man was so dumb that he
forgot to send my age to Uncle Dudley.”
The opening of the dining-room doors
provided an interruption.
Captain Field had the last word:
“You and your old man both better call
a blackout on clowning, and get down to
work. Some fine morning the whole fam¬
ily will be on relief.”
Mr. David was at peace with the world
later in the evening when he returned to
the barracks, where he was greeted by
the night sergeant.
“The Skipper’s in his office, and he
Wants to see you.”
Captain Field looked up with a smile
as Tiny David entered.
“Been taking care of your work as one
of Uncle Dudley’s G-men, I suppose,”
the commanding officer suggested.
Tiny David grinned.
“I won't laugh at that bird any more,
Captain. He has Something. While I
was downtown, 1 looked Up several kids
116
I know. They all belong to that outfit,
and they’re all steamed up about it.”
He made a gesture of apology. “They’re
passing the word around, and we are go¬
ing to hold a meeting tomorrow night.
Darned good thing. Besides, it will help
turn the laugh on Jim.”
Captain Field nodded assent.
“Good enough; but get your debts paid
by the end of the week. The Immigra¬
tion people are having their troubles.
Sort of an outbreak of border-jumping,
from what I gather. They have shipped
in patrols from other - districts, but they
claim that isn’t enough. I promised them
you would be on hand with a detail Mon¬
day afternoon.”
“Very good, sir,” said Tiny David—
C hief Patrol Inspector Thomas Bet¬
ters, of the United States Immigra¬
tion Border Patrol, sat at a desk in a
border customhouse, when Tiny David
reported Monday afternoon.
“How many men have you?” was his
greeting.
“Fifteen,” Tiny David answered.
“Good. We can use them all, and then
some. You see, there seems to be a gen¬
eral rush to crash the border. The refu¬
gee problem accounts for part of it. Then,
what with the business pick-up because
of war orders, the word is getting around
again that the streets of the United States
are paved with gold. On top of all that,
we are getting some really bad actors—
I mean agitators and trouble-makers who
have been kicked out of Europe. We
don’t want them. God knows, we have
enough of our own.”
Betters produced a map of that section
of the border.
“Here is the section we hope to cover.
It will have to be a darned thin line, con¬
sidering the few men we have. By the
way, would you prefer to have a section
of your own, or shall we mix our men in
together ?”
Tiny David considered a moment.
“Might as well give us a section of our
own, if it is all the same to you.”
Betters took a pencil and outlined a
section of the line.
“Good enough. Here you are. That’s
your baby. I suggest you get your patrols
in place shortly after dark tonight. We
will meet here tomorrow afternoon at
about this time and check up on the
score.”
They both looked up as Inspector
Hugh Moore, of the Canadian Royal
Mounted Police, entered. He was tall,
“That’s right. We both are officers.’’
rather handsome, and the uniform of his
organization certainly did not detract
from his appearance. His face lighted
with a smile of recognition as he saw
Tiny David.
“Hello, there. You mixed up in this
party ?”
“More or less,” Tiny David admitted;
“but it really is Betters’ party.”
The Mounty addressed himself to the
immigration man.
“We really haven’t much to offer. Just
dropped in to pass on a bit of informa¬
tion we obtained from an informer. It’s
very vague, but I thought you might as
well have it. This chap tells us there has
been considerable activity, and that they
probably will try to bring a batch over
tonight. He says the entire works in this
section are under the direction of some
chap even his associates know only as the
Chief. Sounds a bit d. la dime novel to
me, but I thought I’d better pass it along
for what it is worth.”
T HE immigration man nodded rather
curtly, and Moore turned on his heels.
Tiny David followed him outside. In¬
spector Moore studied the face of the
trooper for a full moment, and then
asked:
“How do you like this set-up ?”
“Not so hot,” Tiny David admitted.
“Why ?”
Inspector Moore shrugged. “It isn’t
anything you can put in words.” He
hesitated again. “Dash it all, we have
117
worked together so much that we belong
to the same family. If I were you, I’d tell
my chaps to keep their heads up and
their hands clean while they are on this
detail.”
“I’ll do that,” Tiny David promised.
“Thanks a lot.”
Moore waved his hand as he slipped
behind the wheel of his car.
“Just payment on account,” he called.
S HORTLY before midnight Tiny David
made the first inspection of his pa¬
trols. The country along this section of
the border consisted of fields spotted by
occasional stretches of forest. The actual
border was an invisible line, and one
which often received scant consideration
from both Canadian and United States
agencies as they worked together.
The trooper made his way through a
section of dense forest. He walked with
the noiseless, easy tread of the experienced
woodsman. The rapidity of his motion
belied the apparent awkwardness of his
huge form. The inspection was without
incident until Tiny David reached the
post where Sergeant Linton was standing.
“I have a complaint,” Mr. Linton
stated.
“That’s nothing new,” Mr. David
answered. “What is it?”
“Are we holding down this section of
the line, or aren’t we?” Mr. Linton de¬
manded.
“It is supposed to be our line. Why?”
Mr. Linton jerked a thumb in the
general direction of Canada.
“Apparently one of those Federal
babies hasn’t heard about it. He came
crashing through here, big as life. I asked
him what he was doing, and he said that
he was just looking around. That burned
me up, but I just told him that he had a
nice night for it. Then he disappeared in
the general direction of Canada and
points north. Probably thought that
things were a little dull on his own section
of the line, and that he could slip in here
and do a little glory-hogging. Say, is this
our party, or isn’t it ?”
“This,” said Tiny David, “is the im¬
migration men’s party. We are just the
hired help, brought in to serve the
chicken salad.”
“Maybe so,” Mr. Linton admitted,
“but that doesn’t prevent me from saying
that I don’t like it. I think their chicken
salad is made of veal.”
“You just serve it,” Tiny David ad¬
vised, “and don’t start any war. They
have enough of that in Europe.”
Tiny David, continuing his inspection,
reached the far end of his patrol. The
night had been uneventful. He relaxed a
bit as he began the return trip, pausing to
chat with the various troopers he en¬
countered.
He was on the fringe of a stretch of
woodland .when he halted suddenly, his
attention attracted by sounds coming
from among the trees. Then he heard a
muffled voice, speaking in French. He
slipped into the shadows, and made his
way quietly through the forest. The
noise was louder now. A number of men
were making their way toward the
southern end of the woods, which was
over the line, and in the United States.
The trooper veered sharply to intercept
them.
He was unobserved when he emerged
a short distance from the party. There
were four men. Three of them walked to¬
gether. A fourth man followed at a short
distance. One glance at the three men
convinced Tiny David that they were
aliens.
The trooper stepped forward, revolver
in hand.
“Halt!” he ordered. He repeated the
command in French.
The three men paused uncertainly. The
fourth man, who up to this time had been
an indistinguishable shape, came forward
quickly. Tiny David, turning to face him,
saw the uniform of the Immigration
Service.
“What’s the trouble, Trooper?” the
Federal man asked.
Tiny David struggled to control his
anger.
“No trouble,” he declared. “I don't
suppose you want any help with them.”
The man in the Federal uniform was
silent.
“I understand,” Tiny David said.
“When I was younger, I used to go in for
glory-hogging.”
The Federal man growled an indis¬
tinguishable reply. Then he gave a sharp
command to his captives. The party
moved on. Tiny David stood watching
them until they were out of sight. There
was a sarcastic smile on his face.
I nspector Moore and Inspector Bet¬
ters were in conference at the custom¬
house when Tiny David reported the fol¬
lowing afternoon.
“Hello, there,” was the greeting of the
Canadian officer. “I was just explaining
to Inspector Betters that once more I am
the bearer of tardy information. Accord-
iilg to my informant, three very bad
boys left Montreal yesterday morning.
They had a hide-out on our side of the
lihe, and they remained there all day.
Last night they came across. It was an
extra special job, and I rather fancy they
paid a good stiff price to the ring. My
informant even says that this chap the
Chief handled the job personally. By the
way, did you lads have any luck last
night ?”
Tiny David shrugged. “My men didn’t
. even catch cold,” he declared.
Inspector Betters scowled. “Luck
wasn’t running our way either,” the
Federal man declared. “To quote from
the war bulletins, everything was very
quiet on our front.”
Tiny David started to speak, but
caught himself just in time. The Mounty
looked from one man to the other, but
made no comment. In a moment he stood
up and walked to the door.
“Well, I’ll be getting along. The next
time I hope I can bring you some infor¬
mation that’s up to date.”
Tiny David sat staring at the floor.
Ugly suspicions were flashing through
his mind. He had known Betters for
many years, and knew him to be honest,
although the Federal man was jealous of
his own branch of the service, and in¬
clined to be hard to work with. The
trooper also knew the majority of the
district. The Federal mart the trooper
had seen with the three aliens obviously
was a stranger. It was equally obvious
that he was dishonest, for Betters had
just said no arrests had been made during
the night.
The State police officer wrestled mental¬
ly with the problem. His first impulse
was to tell Betters exactly what had hap¬
pened. Upon second thought, he re¬
frained. It is not a pleasant task to tell
an officer that a man under his command
is dishonest. Also, it is inadvisable to
make this charge unless there is indis¬
putable proof.
L ieutenant david reached a de-
i cision. He stood up, walked from the
room, and entered his car, which was
parked outside. Three miles away was
a little settlement known as Linetown.
Its inhabitants engaged in many activi¬
ties, some of them legal and others not.
One of those inhabitants was a man Tiny
David knew and trusted. If what he
suspected was going on, it must have
been in progress for some time, and it
was equally certain that this man would
have heard of it.
Linetown was dozing in the sun of a
late autumn afternoon when Lieutenant
David arrived. The handful of cabins
apparently was deserted, as far as all
outward signs of life were concerned. But
l directly under Betters’ command,
and knew them to be beyond suspicion.
The Federal force, however, had been
augmented by men from outside the
when the trooper rounded the corner of
one house, he was confronted by a small
boy, who Was sitting in a wheel-chair,
and whose feet were encased in steel
braces. Beside the boy was a pair of
crutches.
The youngster’s face lighted with
recognition as he saw the trooper.
“Hello,” said Tiny David. “Do you
happen to know where I can find Joe
Gabor ?”
The boy shook his head. “Joe isn’t
here. He went out on a lumbering job
about two weeks ago. I don’t know just
where he is working.” His face lighted
with animation. “You don’t know me,
do you?”
“No,” Tiny David admitted. “Who
are you?”
“I am Steve Martin. You know, one of
Uncle Dudley’s G-men. The fellows told
me about the meeting you had the other
night. I tried to get in, but there was
nobody to take me.” His face clouded.
“You see, it’s rather hard for me to get
around.”
Tiny David’s face reflected his sym¬
pathy.
“That’s tough,” he said. “But don’t
you worry. We’re going to hold more
meetings. You’re going to get to the next
one, because I’m coming out here for
you myself.”
Young Steve’s face lighted with antici¬
pation.
“Gee, that’s swell! Won’t it burn the
other guys up when I show up there in
your car! You know, I try to be a good
G-man. It’s a little hard, on account of
these legs, but I do the best I can. I live
up to the oath, all right. I don’t go
around telling things that I shouldn’t.”
The boy glanced about him cautiously,
and then lowered his voice.
“There’s a secret right here. I wouldn’t
tell it, only on account of you being a
trooper and me being a G-man, so we
both are officers together.”
Tiny David checked the impulse to
smile.
“That’s right,” he said. “We both are
officers. We can tell each other secrets.
What is it that you know?”
“Well,” the boy began, “there is a guy
right here that is an officer, but nobody
except me knows it.”
120
“What do you mean?’* Tiny David
asked.
“This guy goes to work every day,”
Steve continued, “and the folks here all
think he just works at a gasoline station.
But I know better. About a week ago I
couldn’t sleep on account of these legs
hurting me. I was in bed looking out the
window, and I seen this guy go out. It
must have been along toward morning,
but it was still dark. He was wearing his
uniform. I could see it in the moonlight,
and it was one of those suits like the
Federal men wear when they hunt guys
who try to sneak into this country from
Canada. He was gone quite a long time,
but he got back before it was light. ’Bout
an hour later he came out again, and this
time he was wearing his regular suit, be¬
cause he was on his way to work.”
The boy’s voice throbbed with excite¬
ment.
“I’ll bet he’s one of those under-cover
men. He’s right on the job, because I
have watched him three or four other
nights. But I wouldn’t do anything to
queer him. I haven’t told nobody except
you.”
Lieutenant David concealed his ex¬
citement.
“Did you see him go out last night?”
“Yes,” the boy replied. “He went out
early last night. I didn’t see when he got
back. Guess I must have dropped off to
sleep.”
“What is his name?” Tiny David
asked.
“They call him Marty Halzone. He
aint lived here very long. The folks here
say he came to take the job up in the
filling station, and they were sort of sore
because one of the fellows here all the
time didn’t get it.”
“Which is his house?” Tiny David
asked.
The boy jerked a thumb at a cabin
near by.
T HAT’S it. He lives there all alone.
He’s home now. I just seen him
get back from work about half an hour
ago.”
“Good work!” Tiny David approved.
“You did exactly right in not telling any¬
body else. I’m going in and see this man
now. We may be working on the same
job.” An afterthought came to him. “We
may talk some time, but if I’m not back
here in an hour or so, will you send word
to the State Police barracks, and tell
them where I am ?”
“You bet I will,” the boy replied.
A path strewn with pine-needles led
Tiny David to the door of the cabin. He
knocked briskly. There was no response.
He repeated the summons.
“Who’s there?” came from within the
building.
“Open up! ” Lieutenant David ordered.
There was the sound of footsteps com¬
ing nearer. A bolt clanked in its socket.
A chain rattled. The door edged open
a few inches.
The trooper moved forward, and at¬
tempted to thrust his foot into the open¬
ing, but the man inside was too quick.
The door swung shut. Tiny David threw
his weight against it. Too late—the bolt
had shot into place.
B LIND instinct caused Tiny David to
lean away from the door—and he
was just in time: There was the muffled
report of a gun, and a bullet crashed
through the woodwork of the door.
The State police officer stood poised on
his toes, gun in hand, and ready for ac¬
tion. The sound of crashing glass came
from the rear of the cabin. Tiny David
leaped from the porch, and raced in
that direction.
The fugitive had knocked out a win¬
dow. Then he had leaped to the ground.
Now he was in full flight, headed for the
the woods not far away. Directly in his
path sat the boy in the wheel-chair.
Lieutenant David shouted an order to
halt, which was ignored. The trooper
dropped to one knee, and prepared to
shoot, but the crippled boy was directly
in the line of fire. The fugitive turned
hastily, and fired over his shoulder. Tiny
David dropped flat—and bullets scattered
dirt near one shoulder. Then he was on
his feet, racing after the fugitive.
It was a stern chase. It bade fair to be
a long one, and not far ahead were the
concealing woods. Then the fugitive
drew abreast of young Steve Martin.
The crippled boy had one crutch in
his hand. He waited until the man was
almost in front of him. Then he hurled
the crutch at the runner’s feet. The
man tripped, tried to regain his balance,
then fell flat.
Tiny David, who had been gaining
ground, was pulling up on him fast.
There was only one way to stop him. The
trooper left his feet in a football tackle,
and landed on the fugitive.
There was a struggle, short but des¬
perate. That struggle was near the end
when Tiny David looked up to see the
wheel-chair, which Steve had pulled be-
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
side them. The second crutch was in
the boy’s hands, held like a club. His
teeth were clenched.
“Shall I let him have it?” the boy
asked.
Tiny David secured a firm grip on his
foe. A smile passed over his dirt-stained
1 face.
“No, Steve. I have him now.”
T HE boy’s face mirrored his anxiety.
“He knew you were a cop. I heard
him shoot at you. Then I seen him try
to run away. No right guy would do
that. I aint done wrong, have I?”
Lieutenant David struggled to his feet,
pulling his prisoner after him.
“No, Steve. You did a swell job.”
The boy struggled with his excitement.
“But who—what is he?”
Tiny David’s smile was grim.
“He’s a fellow who used a Federal uni¬
form to help him run aliens. He fooled
me last night. He also managed to cast
discredit on the Federal men all along
the border. You made a swell haul,
Steve. He may call himself Marty Hal-
zone, but I have a hunch he’s a bird we’ve
been looking for, who is known as the
Chief.”
There was a gala scene in the living-
room of the barracks one week later.
Cables led across the floor to portable
microphones. Not only was the room
filled to capacity, but an overflow crowd
thronged the hall and dining-room.
A man holding a watch used his lips
to frame the words:
“You’re on the air.”
A short, stout, moon-faced little man
addressed the microphone:
“Good evening, boys and girls. Here
is your Uncle Dudley again. And is your
Uncle Dudley proud! He’s speaking to
you from the barracks of the Black Horse
Troop, New York State Police, away up
in the north country. Uncle Dudley isn’t
going to tell you why he is proud. Cap¬
tain Charles Field, the boss of the Black
Horse Troop, will do that.”
Captain Field spoke into the micro¬
phone. He began a laconic, matter-of-
fact recital of the part Steve Martin
had played in the capture of the alien-
runner. All this, Captain Field’s voice
and manner indicated, was a pain in the
neck to him. But there was a twinkle in
his eyes; and young Steve Martin, look¬
ing up at him with worshipful eyes, ap¬
parently had learned that Captain Field’s
bark was much worse than his bite.
The Captain fumbled in a pocket and
produced a badge, especially made for
the occasion.
“Uncle Dudley claims you as one of
his G-men. He is very proud of you, and
he has good reason for that. But you be¬
long to us too. I am making you an hon¬
orary member of the Black Horse Troop.”
Captain Field bent over to pin on the
badge. A roar of approval went up from
the assembled troopers. Then Captain
Field addressed the microphone again:
“Major John Harner, Superintendent
of New York State Police, has some¬
thing to say to you.”
Major Harner, trim and debonair,
stood before the boy and the microphone.
“As a matter of routine, we sent Hal-
zone’s fingerprints to the Department of
Justice, in Washington. They know him
under another name, and they want him
so badly that they are willing to pay two
thousand dollars for him. I have the
check here. I can’t tell you how happy
it makes me to turn this over to you,
Steve.”
The boy accepted the bit of paper. He
sat staring at it with unbelieving eyes.
“Gosh! All I can say is thanks, but
that aint half enough.”
Then Uncle Dudley was signing off:
“Now you know why Uncle Dudley is
proud, boys and girls. He is like Steve
Martin. He doesn’t know what to say,
either. It is just as well, because the boss
tells me time is up. Good night, boys
and girls.”
A FILIPINO boy, waving frantically
over a score of heads, tried to indi¬
cate that supper was ready. There was
no stampede. Everybody stood aside
while Tiny David pushed the wheel-chair
from the living-room toward the table of
honor in the dining-room.
The procession halted directly in front
of Mr. Crosby.
“This guy,” Tiny David explained to
his charge, “wants to join our outfit. How
about it ?”
Steve Martin, a bit bewildered by all
that had happened, hesitated.
“You’re right,” Tiny David assured
him. “We’ll have to give it deep thought.
You have to be good, to be one of Uncle
Dudley’s G-men. I’m not at all sure this
guy could make the grade.”
In “Borderline Neutrality,” which is scheduled for an early issue, Tiny David
deals with the new problem of Canadian planes at the boundary line.
122
A BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL—50,000 WORDS,
Murder
In E-Fla t Major
By Fulton Grant
Who wrote “A Battle Is to Fight” and
“A Million for John Destiny”
Illustrated by Persy Leason
A FAMOUS ORCHESTRA CONDUCTOR IS
STRANGELY MURDERED IN FULL VIEW
OF A GALA AUDIENCE .... AND THE
SWIFT-MOVING EVENTS WHICH FOLLOW
MAKE A STORY SUCH AS ONLY THE CREA¬
TOR OF JOHN DESTINY COULD WRITE.
COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE
123
MURDER IN
A paean of triumph rooked the auditorium. And
without wain lug the conductor slumped to the floor.
124
E-FLAT MAJOR
I T was high noon, and lunch-coun- £
ters were bristling with their thou- 3
sands of elbows. A tall, decently •
dressed young man in a bulky over- f
coat was making his way through the •
sandwich-eating crowd at Spinel’s corner
drug-store toward the booths in the rear.
Not an especially handsome young man,
but possessed of a likable face, albeit the
j aw was somewhat too square.
One of the booths just to the right of i
the side entrance was not occupied; in- *
deed, its table was piled with chairs as
though to reserve it for the use of some
special patron. Still the purposeful
young man did not hesitate to lift the
chairs down with his own hands and set
them on the floor. He was about to slide
into one of them, in fact, when a waiter
touched him on the shoulder, saying:
“So sorry, sir—this place, it is taken.”
The young man shook his head.
“Don’t worry. You’re saving it for Miss \ G'
Grayboume, I know. But that’s all right. 1 V\
I’m looking for her. We’re lunching.” '
The little waiter stared at him, then
shuffled away, shaking his head and mut¬
tering, while the young man went into
the alcove seat without more ado, and
proceeded to read a newspaper.
Presently a young woman in stylish
tweeds came in through the crowd and
went toward the booth. The young man
rose and made a humorous little bow.
“Hello, Cora Sue. Surprise, surprisel
I was pretty sure you’d be here, so I
waited. Had a time persuading your
waiter friends to let me sit in your pew,
though. How’s tricks?”
From their observation-posts, the
waiters were relieved to see the girl’s
face light with pleasure. She exclaimed
with excited surprise:
“Why, John! Why, Johnny Freeward!
Whatever in the world are you—”
“I’m celebrating, kind of,” replied the
young man. “And you’ve got to be in
on it. Like?”
The waiter who had protested the
usurpation of the booth now came si¬
dling toward them, his face a smile, his
mind, possibly, filled with the prospect
of a large tip.
Just a little scene, and of no especial
consequence in itself. But in the matter
125
Fulton Grant
Illustrated by Percy Leason
of the strange tragic business which, lat¬
er, the newspapers called “the concert-
hall murder case,” that meeting of two
youngv persons proved to have incalcu¬
lable importance....
They were quite attractive young per¬
sons, those two. John Freeward was the
son of the late distinguished Judge Elli¬
son Freeward, and himself a law gradu¬
ate albeit not yet risen to any noticeable
E innacle of success. And Cora Sue Gray-
ourne, formerly a sob-sister reporter for
the Daily Chronicle, now held an envi¬
able position as head of the press-rela¬
tions for Jake Schuldrein, Inc., agent and
manager for a hundred musical celebri¬
ties, orchestras and virtuosi. Let it be said
of Cora Sue that the Dresden-China fra¬
gility of her beauty was a deceptive cloak
which hid strength of character and pur-
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
pose. Quite a girl, this Cora Sue, and
no wonder young Freeward loved her.
John Freeward was saying:
“You see before you no longer a dreary
private in the Great Army of Unem¬
ployed, but a busy, stirring youth, full
of promise, brimming with the will to
succeed, with fire and courage, captain
of his soul and master of his fate—”
“Johnny! You mean you’ve really
taken a job? You’ve quit playing ostrich,
and—”
“And kidding myself that I can buck
five thousand more or less competent
other lawyers in this city all alone.
That’s right. I have, I am and I did.
Tell me you’re pleased.”
“Oh, I am, Johnny—and just a little
amazed. What’s the job?”
“Don’t laugh now. It’s in the DA’s
office.”
“D.A.?”
“District Attorney. The great John
Latismer himself wrote me a letter, and
I went to see him, ready to spit in his
eye—you know how I despise handouts
from people who ‘worshiped the Judge.’
But he said he’d been watching me—
said he’s had an eye on me ever since
Dad died and I came to New York. Said
he thought I’d make a good people’s
prosecutor some day, and he wanted me
to have the right chance—do it on my
own. Well, I fell for it. Vanity, all van¬
ity, darling. So anyhow, for better or for
worse, I’m working. Been with Latismer
a week, now, and didn’t get the gate.
Hence the celebration.”
Then he added, as he caught sight of
the waiter still grinning at them:
“Let’s have lunch, darling. This is my
party. Blow yourself to anything up to
and not excluding a half-dollar.”
B UT Cora Sue was too excited to think
of mere food.
“Oh, John,” she exclaimed, “it’s won¬
derful! You’re—you’re a district attor¬
ney?"
He grinned. “Not yet. But I might be
some day if I play smart and really have
the stuff. I’m pleased, I’ll admit. It’s a
chance. . . . There’s only one more ques¬
tion to settle, now that the young swain’s
future is assured. When will you marry
me, Cora Sue?”
Her face altered, and she seemed to
frown.
“Oh, John,” she said slowly, “you know
I’m terribly glad for you, but—but can’t
you see—”
He held up his hand.
“Don’t!” he said. “Don’t say it, Cora
Sue. Let’s keep my celebration-party
happy. Besides, I’ve heard it all before.
You think I’m a decent young feller with
a nice family background and a lot of
ability which I’ve been wasting, but
stubborn and sort of a stuffed shirt in
the wrong kind of a way. And now you
want to wait another ten years or so un¬
til you can carve out a nice big womanly
career before you think about marriage.
Sure, I know. The words may be differ¬
ent, but the music’s always the same.
Well, I guess I can still take it. You’re
worth it, only— How about that lunch,
darling? Your time’s money, even if
mine isn’t.”
A MOMENT of awkward silence fell
between them, broken by the little
waiter, who chose this opportunity to say:
“Good morning. Miss Graybourne.”
Cora Sue was glad of a break in the
tension. She said almost too brightly:
“Why, good morning, Ben. . . . Sand¬
wiches, I guess. Turkey for me, and—I
think the gentleman likes ham.” Then
as an afterthought, she added: “And how
are you getting along with your music?”
The thin face made a grimace.
“Not so good, miss. When you play
all alone, you don’t get any place. In an
orchestra, now—”
“Yes, but you don’t want an orchestra
job, so you said.”
“The unions, they are not for me,
miss,” the man said with sudden empha¬
sis. “I do not like unions. But like I tell
ou before, without a union card, no job.
think I am making a good soda-jerker
—a musical soda-jerker, that’s me, miss.”
He turned away abruptly.
John Freeward grinned. “Musical
soda-jerker, eh? You’re wonderful, Cora
Sue, always finding rough diamonds:
chauffeurs with culture, waiters with mu¬
sical talent. You should go in for social
service.”
Cora Sue was too absorbed to resent
his scoffing.
“He’s pathetic, John. He’s such a pa¬
trician.”
“Patrician! Another case of nobility
on its uppers, eh? And what’s his instru¬
ment, the ocarina?”
She was still serious.
“He told me he played in the National
Orchestra at Rome before he came over
—the oboe. But even so, he can’t get a
job here unless he joins—”
"Oboe!” John was laughing. “You
sure can pick ’em, Cora Sue. With that
126
MURDER IN E-PLAT MAJOR
hair and that classical pan, I’d figure
him for a violin at least. But an oboel”
And he began an extempore limerick:
There once was a patrician hobo
Who diligently practiced the oboe.
While a -lass widi compassion,
In true motherly fashion,
Allowed him to—
Cora Sue stamped her little foot.
“Stop it! Stop being so supercilious
and poking fun at him, John Freeward.
Maybe he is only a soda-clerk, but he’s
people—nice people, too. He’s educated
and a gentleman, which is more than—”
John became contrite at once.
“Kamerad!” he said. “Now don’t ^et
mad. I was only ribbing you, and I’m
sorry. But you’ll admit you have a tal¬
ent for discovering geniuses in the most
improbable places. Last year, remem¬
ber, it was that old cabby in the Park
who composed Latin verses. I think he
took you for fifty dollars or so. It isn’t
any of my business, I know, but these
talented waiters are—”
Then he saw how really hurt she was,
and shifted quickly,
“Come on, let’s forget it. This is a
party. What’s new at Schuldrein’s?”
Cora Sue was not appeased entirely
and replied:
“Well, not that you’d care or under¬
stand, but Mr. Schuldrein has made mu¬
sical history for New York. He’s signed
with the greatest musician in the world
to come over and be guest-conductor.”
“Who’s that—Irving Berlin?”
“No, you precious idiot, Giuseppe
Maldochini. He’ll conduct the Master-
iece Symphony for a whole season, and
have to help him arrange programs and
write all the press notices and—oh, isn’t
it just thrilling?”
“Why? Who’s Maldochini?”
“A conductor, stupid, like Toscanini
or Mengelberg or—”
“Orchestral drum-major, eh?”
“And he’s also the greatest composer
of our time.”
“And I never heard of him! I thought
Friml—”
“Not commercial, eh? Well, if old
Schuldrein’s got him, I’ll bet he gets a
thousand uncommercial smackers for
every flip of the baton, and—”
“You needn’t laugh. I just love him,
John. He’s so noble and ethereal and re¬
mote and—it’s a privilege even to be near
a man like Maldochini. I know you
don’t like music, but—”
“You malign me, darling. I’m an old
music-lover from way back, but I can’t
stand highbrow stuff. But if you like
Bach for breakfast and Beethoven in
bed, it’s all right with me, sweetheart.
So let’s don’t fight.” He patted her hand
and reached for one of the sandwiches
which the musical waiter had spirited
onto their table.
Cora Sue smiled at him. “You’re a
bit of a weevil, Johnny,” she said, “but
you’re a dear when you want to be. And
just for that, I want you to carry me to
the opening concert at Vanderstitt to¬
morrow night. I’ve got complimentaries.
We’ll sit with the press and the notables,
and there’ll be a supper afterward, for
the maestro.”
John grinned at Cora Sue’s lapse into
that Southernism, “carry,” but let her
babble on.
“And I do so wish you could discover
good music for yourself, John. It’s so im¬
portant. And you’ll meet Maldochini,
too. He’s such a lovely person. He’s a
saint, really—so gentle and—”
John’s grin broadened, but he made
no gibe.
“I guess I can stand it if you can,” he
said. “Do I wear my old tails?”
“Please. You’re divine in evening
clothes. Now call for me at eight.
Johnny, and I’ll have a cocktail for you.
I’ll have to hurry, now—rehearsal for the
radio crowd.” She was standing up, her
sandwich hardly touched, but looking at
him with a real tenderness.
“I know you detest musical things,
John,” she said, “and you’re a dear to
go with me. . . . Maybe one of these
days I’ll have to up and marry you, just
to keep other females away.”
And she hurried out of the door.
“You aren’t funny; you’re stupid.
Everybody knows that Maldochini’s
‘Retribution of Cain’ is the most power¬
ful musical document since Cdsar
Franck. Took him forty years to write
it, and he’s never done anything else
since. He’s been refusing all American
offers for years. He isn’t a bit commer¬
cial, you know. He thinks radio is—”
John could not resist saying:
CHAPTER II
I T was a drizzly evening, and John
Freeward was in a dull humor. The
dreary routine of his work at the D.A.’s
office had begun to drag on him and he
was feeling a little like a squirrel in a
cage, endlessly turning a wheel and get-
127
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
ting nowhere. And when, after wedging
himself into his outgrown suit of “tails,”
and squandering cabfare—which he could
ill afford—to Cora Sue’s apartment, he
found her gone. She had left a note, of
course, but that was small satisfaction.
The note was typical. It read:
“I’m awfully sorry, Johnny, but Mr.
Schuldrein wanted me to meet one of
the big English critics who happens to be
here on some war-time newspaper job,
and chaperon him to the auditorium:
I’ll wait for you in the lobby at eight-
thirty—Cora Sue.”
T HE usual silk-and-fur clad crowd
thronged the lobby and overflowed to
the sidewalk, despite the rain. The com¬
ing of a man like Giuseppe Maldochini
was enough to insure a gala occasion for
society as well as for true music-lovers.
John ignored the offer of a vast umbrella
which the door attendant thrust at him,
and pushed toward the entrance. Just
inside, a tall, immaculately dressed gen¬
tleman, slightly over middle-age, stood
talking with several ladies. As John
brushed by, he touched his shoulder,
saying civilly:
“Ah, good evening, Freeward. Didn’t
know you went in for this sort of thing.”
John turned and raised his hat.
“Good evening, Mr. Latismer. Fact
is, I’m being dragged here by the pro¬
verbial wild horses. But I’ll recover in
time to be on the job in the morning.”
The District Attorney’s severe face
gave a meager smile, and he nodded,
then returned to his friends, and John
passed on through to the lobby.
Cora Sue was waiting, true to her
word, although it was not yet eight-
thirty, but she was not alone. A long-
limbed, wry-looking gentleman with a
monocle and a neatly trimmed black
beard, and wearing a badly wrinkled
dinner-coat, stood by her smoking a cig¬
arette and chatting.
“Oh, Johnny! I’m so very sorry. Did
you get my note? This is Mr. Wengalle
—the Peter Wengalle, you know. He
writes those terribly witty reviews for the
London Conservative.” And before John
could even nod at the man, she went on:
“This is John Freeward, Mr. Wengalle.
He’s a lawyer, and he simply abominates
music, but you mustn’t mind him.”
The men shook hands. Cora Sue
glanced at her watch and gave a little
bleat of anxiety.
“Oh, it’s late, and I
about some photos of
Do take Mr. Wengalle up, Johnny.
Here are the passes. I’ll come and join
you later. Forgive me, there’s a dear. So
nice, Mr. Wengalle. And you aren’t to
be shocked at John’s ignorance—he’s
such an old dunce.”
And she was dashing frantically away.
Wengalle lifted the corners of his
beard. “She’s a bit of a wonder, isn’t
she, I say? Charming, though. I gather
she’s your fiancee. Congratulations.
Shall we go up? Believe it or not, I de¬
test these things as much as you do.”
John liked the Englishman at once.
Peter Wengalle’s name was, he knew, a
sort of conjure-word among the people of
Cora Sue’s set on the fringe of the world
of music, and it was pleasant to discover
that this demigod was human after all.
“Cora Sue’s all right,” he grinned.
“But our engagement is—well, sort of
one-sided. For years, she—”
Wengalle nodded understandingly.
“One gets the impression that she’s been
infected with the career bacillus. Not a
fatal disease. They recover. I’d say hang
onto her. Shall we go and join the im¬
mortals?”
In the third-row seats reserv ed for per¬
sonages of importance, Wengalle was al¬
most immediately recognized, and found
himself surrounded, back-slapped, lion¬
ized and pounced upon by a dozen
would-be worshipers. He was more than
equal to them, however, and brought
John into the conversation at once.
“Meet my friend Freeward, gentlemen,
and admire him. Possibly the only man
among us who detests symphonic music
and has the courage to admit it. Ought
to respect him, what?”
B UT an early winking of overhead
lights sent the others back to their
seats, and Wengalle seemed glad enough
to open talk with John alone.
“An eventful evening ahead. I’ll wa¬
ger,” he said, looking around the audi¬
ence. “See that ghostly lad in the row
ahead—third seat over? Chap looks as
though he had a sour pickle in his
mouth. That’s Bloc—Marcel Bloc, the
French composer. He’s one of the rea¬
sons my old paper cabled me to attend.
They’re doing an American premiere of
his latest cacophony. Probably we’ll
have an explosion.”
“Explosion?” John was curious.
“Something like that. Bloc goes in for
being temperamental. Publicity-getter in
an unpleasant way. Fights duels with
critics—that kind of thing. Killed poor
promised to see
La Blanchamps.
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
Andre Dubenicq last year. Makes scenes.
Takes himself seriously. He’ll not miss a
chance to shout Maldochini down.”
“You mean—”
“Quite. Bloc’s a maniac. Besides, he
may have cause, eh? This thing of his,
Pritre en Forme d'une Symphonie is mad
music, and this Maldochini’s neither
mad nor a musician.”
J OHN found himself rushing to defend
Cora Sue’s idol. “Why, I thought
Maldochini was the greatest—”
“Greatest buffoon in the world, my
friend. Knows less about music than a
ublic-school boy. Real musicians hate
is tripe.”
“But Cora Sue said—”
“Miss Graybourne? Naturally she
would. All women love him. His stock-
in-trade. But he’s a nasty old man, for
all that. His mistresses fairly litter the
musical capitals. . . . That wouldn’t
matter if only he were a musician, but he
isn’t. Just a gallery-god, and a devilish¬
ly commercial one, too. He’ll retire after
this American cruise—made the bluff of
holding out for years, but that was only
price-juggling. He’s washed up in Eu¬
rope now. Vogue’s finished. Can’t fool
all the people all the time, as your Bar-
num put it. And the Italian’s been do¬
ing just that too long. And now since
the Blanchamps scandal—”
“Scandal? I thought at least he—”
“Yvonne Blanchamps, you know—the
French soprano who sings tonight, later
on. Far be it from me to spread such
gossip, but she used to be Bloc’s girl¬
friend; then she married an obscure little
violinist — God knows why —and then
Maldochini moved in. She wouldn’t
sing here, only for him, of course. Fol¬
lows him around like a puppy. She’s a
numero, as they say.”
John could hardly resist saying:
“I’m amazed. Cora Sue thinks Mal¬
dochini is about perfect. Says he’s a
modern saint.”
“Of course. All women go for him,
although he’s sixty, if he’s a day old.
Ought to end in Hollywood. Sex appeal
—that thing you Americans invented.
Can’t put your finger on what he’s got,
but his road to fame is littered with fe¬
male corpses, figuratively and actually.
And he still pulls the audiences in.”
“But as a composer, he still must be—”
"Composer! You mean that ‘Cain’
thing? That’s good music—if he wrote
it.”
“If he wrote it?”
Wengalle lowered his voice:
“Look here, my friend. I’m here on a
government job, and I don’t have to com¬
ply with all the rules of deportment for
critics. Officially I know nothing; but
when you’ve mingled with the so-called
musical world as much as I have to, you
hear a lot of things. There’s something
queer about Maldochini’s music. Seri¬
ous musicians claim he hasn’t the ability
to have written it. Took him forty years
at that, mind you. Damned slow, if you
ask me. And when he published it, it
gave him a job in charge of all the Italian
musical projects, too. But what has he
done since? Nothing. Only some scraps
that any young harmony student might
write. Not a trace of the hand that
wrote ‘Retribution of Cain.’ Mind you,
I don’t say he didn’t write that; I only
say there’s room to doubt. And Mal¬
dochini’s such a buffoon that doubting’s
easy. You see—”
A semi-darkness filled the auditorium.
“Hello! There go the lights! Trust a
Maldochini to use light-and-shadow ef¬
fects. Well, we’re in for it now. Here’s
the program. Stupidly bad presentation,
if you ask me. See? They’re beginning
with Bloc’s thing—too long for an open¬
er. I’ve heard it once. Not bad, either
—musician’s music; don’t try to like the
first movement.”
There was a stirring down in front,
and the black-clad musicians were filing
to their places on the big platform.
W ENGALLE said, winking hugely:
“There they are, poor devils! Bet
you there’s murder in every heart of
them. Maldochini may be a Casanova
in the boudoir, but he’s a damned mar¬
tinet to his musicians. Ah, there he is!
Give yourself a look at the phenomenon.”
John looked. The crowded auditori¬
um was ringing with applause as a
svelte, dapper little man with a snow-
white mane of hair came trippingly as a
maiden across the platform floor and
took his place at the leader’s desk. He
was picturesque, to say the least. The
perfectly matched and pointed mus¬
taches, and the shag of hair, gave him
the look of a small ivory lion. But more
than that, the man gave evidence at once
that this concert was to be a personal
thing—a sort of musical visit between
himself and the audience. He turned
to face the hall, his back to the players.
He bowed low. He kissed his fingers
toward one of the boxes, while the big
hall shook with cheers and clapping.
129
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Maldochini! Maldochini! Ayl Ayl
Ay! Maldochini!”
“See what I mean?” said Wengalle.
“Bet you he doesn’t know who’s in that
box—just picking at random for an im¬
pression.”
“Signore—” The Italian’s limpid
voice rose above the clapping. “E sig-
norini—” Then he babbled along in
passionate but rather grotesque English
of which only a little was easily to be un¬
derstood—mingling words and tears of
emotion, choking, faltering, displaying
every known device of histrionics, saying,
in gist, that he, an old man far away
from his native land, had been over¬
whelmed to discover that, he had merely
changed his home.
They shouted and roared and stamped
and beat the seats, while the maestro,
with real tears streaming down his face,
waited and appeared to be choking with
emotion. Then he raised his hand in a
gesture of majesty. They stopped cheer¬
ing. He rapped with his baton to bring
his men to attention. And with a ges¬
ture which was all but tigerish, he at¬
tacked the first chord.
The “Priere en Forme d’une Sym¬
phonic” was something of a revelation to
John Freeward. For the first time in his
life he was actually moved by orchestral
music. This, he told himself, wasn’t
really music. But the thing reminded
him of the vast, plastic mass of Notre
Dame in Paris, where, in his student
days, he had stood of evenings, watching
the great cathedral bathed under a co¬
balt moon, its gargoyles silently scream¬
ing. There was no mirth in it, only prim¬
itive savagery. A reedy oboe screamed
a demoniac wail. Lost women of Go¬
morrah moaned in counterpoint. Inno¬
cents were slaughtered, and their anguish
was the shrill of the piccolo. Sin jeered;
death leered through that amazing dis¬
play of improbable technicalities, while
a felt but scarcely heard tympanum
stirred irrepressible desires in him, alter¬
ing the tempo of his heartbeat, snatching
at his nerve fibers.
Suddenly a human voice shouted. A
man in the row just in front of John was
jumping to his feet and screaming or
yelling, flourishing his fists in the air:
“Voleur! Meutrier! Imbecile!” It
was Bloc, the Frenchman, of course. His
voice blared over the fanfare of brass and
percussion.
“Sacred fool of a mocker! Bluffer!
Pretentieux! Who is this barbarian who
destroys my work? Throw him out,
foutex-le dehors! Kill him! Mob him!
Spit on him! Out with Maldochini!”
A stream of incomprehensible invec¬
tive in French and broken English flowed
from the madman. He waved his arms
and flourished a heavy cane, roaring and
yelling and throwing the entire audience
into an astonished confusion.
Wengalle nudged John.
“That does it!” he said. “There’s your
Frenchman in form. He swears Mal¬
dochini is conspiring to defame him by
playing his thing too fast. As if that
kind of music had a tempo, anyhow!
Wouldn’t put it past the Italian, though.
Good God! Look at that, now.”
The Frenchman suddenly seemed pos¬
sessed of a homicidal mania, and only
the restraining hands of several men sit¬
ting near him prevented him from hurl¬
ing his cane across the platform at the
conductor, or perhaps leaping to commit
mayhem upon Maldochini’s person.
B UT the Italian was equal to the fan¬
tastic occasion. At the Frenchman’s
shout, he had turned his head slightly,
never losing a beat of his baton, and
stared coldly over his shoulder. A cruel
smile flickered over the man’s aquiline
face. His shoulders made a Latin shrug
which seemed to say: “Aha! It’s that
Bloc, eh? Well, that might be expected
of the poor fool!”
And then he turned back to his score
as though babel had not broken loose
behind him at all.
“He’s a cool one, that Maldochini, I
must say,” John whispered.
“Cool? He’s brazen. And he loves it.
This is his chance to be a hero. Money
couldn’t buy such publicity, you know.
Gad, that Bloc is absolutely frothing,
what?”
So he was. They had managed, some¬
how, to drag him out into the aisle now,
and were propelling him, still struggling,
toward the rear of the auditorium. His
eyes were a sickly white, his face purple.
Faces peered, scandalized. Exclamations,
protests, arose in susurrus above the mu¬
sic. But the music did not cease. It
went on, ironical, like an acoustical grin,
while its composer was being dragged by
force from the auditorium.
130
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
And then, suddenly, it was over. That
first movement ended on a rising inflec¬
tion, as though to ask some profound,
unanswerable question. And the silence
which followed it was impressive.
C ORA SUE was slipping into the seat
beside John, and he sensed almost
at once that the girl was upset and trou¬
bled. She took his arm tightly; even in
the dim light, he could see that her lips
were white and that she was on the point
of tears.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he whispered
to her. “Don’t let that cheap French¬
man get you down; he’s—”
She shook her head violently. It was
something else that was troubling her.
“Never mind—please, John!” she said.
“Please—I’ll be all right.”
The break between the first and sec¬
ond movements was ended; the maes¬
tro, moving his baton like a chirurgical
scalpel, stroked out the subtle whisper
of reeds which began the andante of that
curious composition.
The power of it was like a spell, now.
It plucked John’s attention and com¬
pelled him, in spite of himself, to listen.
The innocent, plaintive song of the oboe
etched delicate arabesques. The thing
seemed indeed a “prayer” now, and its
musical whisper was couched in voices
which seemed not to belong to this world
at all.
Then the volume and the tempo be¬
gan increasing. A muttering of drums,
like the warning lightning before a
storm, began to pulsate and throb
through the warp and woof of opposed
melodies. The voice of the entire or¬
chestra was speaking like the roar of a
universe. A deep, sonorous, inarticulate
voice that might have awed Moses from
the Burning Bush, rumbled in majesty.
Thunder crashed. All-but-visible elec¬
tricity scorched the air. A psean of
triumphal shouting rocked the auditori¬
um as the fortissime grew. Crash! The
angels of heaven were marching a holy
Crusade. Crash! Blare! Fanfarel The
brasses lifted their mighty voices.
And without warning, without the
loss of a single beat in his mad stroking
of the baton, the conductor suddenly
slumped against the music-stand, slowly
crumpled, and slid headlong to the plat¬
form floor.
The music stopped abruptly. Confu¬
sion tangled the orchestra. An instru¬
ment, perhaps a violin, clattered to the
wooden floor as some of the musicians
rushed to their fallen leader. A great
universal gasp filled the audience. Men
were trying to lift Maldochini to his
feet, but his head sagged ominously.
Skeptic Wengalle said hoarsely:
“Damn! I say that’s going too far.
Utterly bogus, that act. Playing for sym¬
pathy. Doing the martyr. Damned buf¬
foon makes me sick.”
But Cora Sue took John’s attention
away even from the drama on the plat¬
form, and he scarcely heard Wengalle’s
outburst.
She was rigid, trembling. She held her
two little fists doubled at her chin, and
she was breathing as though each breath
were a torture.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, as though
to herself. “Oh, dear God! She’s killed
him. He’s dead! That awful woman!”
The full significance of these words
did not quite come across to John then.
What struck him was that Cora Sue
should have been so close to the verge
of hysteria; she was usually a very com¬
posed girl, and somehow he felt that her
trouble had begun not with the collapse
of her musical idol Maldochini at all,
but in something which had occurred
between the moment she had left him in
the lobby and when she had crept into
her seat. But he only said:
“Easy, honey, easy. He’s not dead-
only a stroke, probably. The man’s not
young, you know.”
T HINGS moved swiftly then. The
asbestos fireproof curtain dropped
over the platform like the closing of an
eyelid, and the excitement and startled
whispering of the audience became a
murmur of astonishment. In ten years
or more of concert-going, that crowd had
probably never seen Vanderstitt Hall’s
platform shut off by a curtain.
Then Cora Sue was getting to her
feet, pulling gently away from John.
“Rest-room—going for a smoke—can’t
stand it. Sorry I’m such a— Wait for
me, John.”
Just then a man ran onto the platform
and began addressing the audience.
“Ladi-e-es and gentlemen!”
What the devil was the matter with
Cora Sue? Never saw her so disconcert¬
ed. Better let her alone, though. Only
embarrass her, following her out there.
So he sat still, as the speaker went on.
“It is with sincere regret,” he was say¬
ing sonorously, “that the management
has decided not to continue this night’s
performance, owing to the sudden ill-
131
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
ness of Signor Maldochini. The same
program will be given, however, one
week from tonight, and your present
ticket-stubs will be—”
The rest was confusion and muddle;
for another man, not in evening clothes,
scurried out on the platform from the
wing and ran up to the speaker, whisper¬
ing into his ear. The first one seemed to
recoil as though shocked. Then he
turned to his audience and said:
“Ladi-e-es and gentlemen—it is my
most painful duty to inform you that
Signor Maldochini has passed away.”
Murmurs filled the big hall.
“And I am requested to ask you all to
remain in your seats for a short time un¬
til the police have been able to make
their usual routine examination of the
circumstances.”
Wengalle’s eyes were popping.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed. As to John,
he sat there open-mouthed. This was
bordering on the fantastic. This was like
one of those awful trapeze accidents at
the circus. This was—
Someone touched his arm.
“Mr. Freeward, sir?” He turned his
head. A uniformed usher stood in the
aisle, leaning over to him.
“Yes, I’m Freeward. What is it?”
Panic was in him. Had Cora Sue—
“If you will come with me, sir. Mr.
Latismer is asking for you.”
“Latismer! You mean—the District
Attorney? You’re sure you’ve got the
right man?” But he knew before he
spoke that there could be no mistake.
Hadn’t he seen Latismer? The D.A. was
somewhere in the audience.
“Quite certain, sir. He sent me for you
particularly. If you will come with me,
sir—he’s down back there.”
This was said with a gesture of the
man’s hand toward the asbestos curtain.
“Down back there” would mean some¬
where behind that curtain where a man
had died.
John got hurriedly from his seat and
followed the usher down the aisle.
CHAPTER III
J OHN LATISMER was talking in a
friendly tone; yet there was a steely
finality in his words.
“I’m sorry to spoil your evening, Free¬
ward, but I need you. Since I happened
to be in the audience, the management
sent a call for me. Our office isn’t really
interested yet, of course, but—”
An unbelievable suspicion overcame
John’s silence.
“You mean—you mean Maldochini
was murdered, sir?”
The D.A.’s angular face was hard.
“A bullet. Probably fired during that
last crescendo when it wouldn’t be
heard. The police are holding Bloc.”
“But sir, it’s not possible.”
Latismer was not interested in a young
assistant’s speculation.
“The Homicide Bureau will take over,
Freeward. I want you to sit in and
check their work. Their job, not ours, un¬
til there is an indictment, of course, but
I want a background report—we’ll need
it later. Cover it like a newspaper re¬
porter.”
“Yes sir.”
Latismer gave him a sharp look.
“That doesn’t mean you’re to play am¬
ateur detective, Freeward. All we want is
a case for the people. You’ll find Lieu¬
tenant Quill in the anteroom. Stay by
him and watch him work. Report to Mr.
Dillion in the morning. He’ll be in
charge while I’m away.”
“You’re going away, sir?” John was
faintly surprised.
“Florida. Two weeks. Leave early in
the morning.” Then he added in a less
matter-of-fact way: “This is a very good
chance' for you to show clear common
sense, Freeward, and I’m glad to give it
to you. You’re more fitted for active
work like this than for office routine. Or¬
dinarily you wouldn’t be in line for it,
but being here in the building, natural¬
ly—” Then he laid his hand on John’s
shoulder.
“The Judge, your father, was a great
man, John,” he said. “And his greatness
lay in his simple use of common sense
and his understanding of humans. I
hope you can—”
A flash of a very old resentment filled
the young man.
“Please, Mr. Latismer,” he said. “If
I’m any good at all, it’s because I’ve got
something, not because the Judge had it.
I’ll do the best I can, sir. And I appre¬
ciate—”
Latismer did not precisely smile. That
iron mask of his rarely smiled. But he
gave John a quizzical look as he put on
his hat and gloves.
“Very well, John,” he said. “Dillion
will expect your report. Good luck.”
And as he turned toward the door he
added:
“This looks like a simple enough case
now, but if anything really irregular
132
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR'
turns up, you can get me by phone at
Sarasota. Good night, Freeward.”
Then he left.
Tieutenant James Quill was an old
I j war-dog in the department. Gruff,
short-spoken, inclined to be irascible, he
was an able man, and a sure one, with
twenty years of service behind him.
John found the Lieutenant at work in
typical fashion. In the big anteroom
where the musicians assemble before go¬
ing onto the platform, he had set a lit¬
tle table; here he sat in his shirt sleeves,
perspiring and barking questions at the
French composer Marcel Bloc, who stood
between two uniformed men, looking
frightened, almost dazed.
“So you left your friends, hey?” barked
Quill. “So you walked out of the men’s
room where they took you, hey? You
wanted air, huh? And then what?
Where’d you go then, Frenchy?”
» But he did not wait for an answer. He
yelled, shaking his finger at the bewil¬
dered man:
% “I’ll tell you: You went across to the
gallery stairs, and you went up there,
sneaking into the right-hand boxes—
right on top of the platform, that’s what.
You waited until the drums and things
were making a helluva noise, and then
you pulled a .22-caliber gun and plugged
the maestro where he stood. That’s what
you did, Frenchy, and damned well I
know it.”
The frightened Frenchman was be¬
yond the limits of his small command of
English.
“Mats, mais non, monsieur— but no,
eet was not like you say. I do not keel
him. I swear it.”
“You lie!” shouted Quill. “You know
damned well you lie.”
“Mais, monsieur!’’ The Frenchman
made a pathetic try at bristling.
“Don’t you monsoor me, Frenchy,”
snarled Quill. “Everybody and his sister
heard you get up and yell at Maldochini.
You raised hell. You called him out.
You threatened him, and they had to
drag you out o’ the hall. You were mad
enough to kill anybody. Besides, you got
a bad reputation, Bloc. You killed a cou¬
ple critics back home. Sure, I know
about those duels. You—”
John felt disinclined to interrupt
Quill at this heated moment, and waited
in the doorway. In the more dimly light¬
ed part of the room stood a number of
the musicians, evidently retained for
questioning. Four or five policemen
were posted at the three exits. The room
had a nervous tension as Quill shouted
and roared at the luckless Bloc.
Suddenly John experienced an odd
sensation: A face among the musicians
touched his memory—a thin, gaunt face,
of a man in his forties, possibly a for¬
eigner. There was nothing about him
that made him stand out from the other
musicians, save a sense of half-recogni¬
tion that John couldn’t account for. He
knew none of the players. His acquaint¬
ance in the musical world included only
friends of Cora Sue’s, and a few lesser
pianists or singers for whom the Schul-
drein Enterprises made concert engage¬
ments.
But Quill, evidently not able to make
Marcel Bloc give him a confession of
murder, was shouting now:
“Take him away! Take him out and
charge him with murder. Hold him un¬
til I can get down to Headquarters.”
And the Frenchman was promptly
handcuffed and forced out the door,
struggling and protesting.
T HE moment seemed favorable, and
John presented himself.
“I’m Freeward, D.A.’s office. Lieuten¬
ant. I was told—”
“Whassat? D.A. man? What the
hell does Latismer think he’s doing, stick¬
ing his nose in my—” He broke off and
gave John a quick, sharp look.
“Name’s Freeward, hey? Wouldn’t be
Judge Freeward’s boy?”
“Yes sir, I—”
Quill snorted. “Damned if I ever ex¬
pected a Freeward to be nestin’ with
those damned political buzzards! But,”
he added, “sit down and keep your ears
open and your mouth shut, son. Remem¬
ber, this aint a D.A. case yet. Don’t butt
in. —MacFarlane, get me that plan of
the orchestra seating. And you, Schultz
—I want everybody in the hall, see? Get
’em when they go out. Post a man at all
the exits. Send ’em home, now. But
either they talk now, or we’ll book ’em
as witnesses, hear? I don’t care if it’s
Mrs. Ritz-Vanderfeller in person.” He
glared at the officer whom he was in¬
structing as though the man might doubt
his determination. Then he barked:
“Now all of you musicians, step up
here, one by one. . . . Snappy, now.”
They obeyed, but they were obviously
unhappy at it, and their answers to
his questions were hesitant, vague and
faltering. John had a sudden recollec¬
tion of Wengalle’s odd remark about all
133
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
of the musicians having murder in their
hearts, and he wondered if arresting Bloc
wasn’t a little previous.
But other thoughts chased speculation
from his mind. Cora Sue, for instance.
Half an hour had passed since she had
left him hurriedly, and plainly upset,
saying: “Wait for me, John.” He hadn’t
waited, of course, and that troubled him.
She wouldn’t like that. Cora Sue clung
to enough of her earlier Southern train¬
ing to enjoy having her cavaliers dancing
attendance. Probably she’d be a little
hurt. Well, he couldn’t help it. A job’s
a job. He’d straighten that out later.
I NTROSPECTION ceased, however, as
he grew conscious that the member of
the orchestra whose face had seemed fa¬
miliar a moment before was now talking
with Quill. He stared at the fellow. He
did know that face. He was sure of it.
Italian cast. Still, two Italians wouldn’t
be likely to have that long, bridgeless
nose that came straight from the man’s
forehead to a sharp aristocratic point,
like the noses on Greek statues, or the
Sixteenth Century nobles in the old
prints. Patrician nose.
" Patrician ." That word did it. It re¬
called his little sally with Cora Sue the
previous noon. Oboe-playing waiter.
“He’s such a patrician,” she had said.
The man was answering questions.
“The name, it is Rasp. Ben Rasp. I
am playing the oboe in this orchestra be¬
cause the maestro is one old friend of me
from Italy.”
The voice was conclusively familiar
now, and John could not resist an im¬
pulse to break into Quill’s inquiry with:
"Excuse me, Lieutenant, but I’ve got
a question to ask that may be useful.”
Then, and without waiting for consent
that he sensed might never come, he de¬
manded of the man:
“So—you play the oboe? And aren’t
you also a waiter at Spinel’s drug-store
sandwich bar?”
If John had supposed that such a
question would discountenance the man,
he was quite wrong. On the contrary, the
thin face articulated a grin.
"Sure—yes sir. I remember now you
are coming one day with Mees Gray-
boume, no?”
Quill’s mouth closed silently upon any
protest he may have had ready, and he
seemed to listen attentively.
“But I heard you tell Miss Grayboume
you couldn’t play in an orchestra. You
said you wouldn’t join a union—some-
134
thing like that. And how comes it we
find you playing with the biggest orches¬
tra in New York. Isn’t that a little—”
The grin broadened.
“But why I should tell Mees Gray-
bourne when she is giving me ten dol¬
lars for buying music? If she knows I am
playing, then she is no more sorry for
Ben. She give no more money.”
The baldness and shamelessness of
such an admission rather startled John,
and he could only say, rather lamely:
“Oh—I see. And how long have you
played with the orchestra?”
The man lifted his shoulders.
“Six day—not so long, Mister. Like I
am saying, the maestro, he is one friend
from the old country. Since many years
I do not see him, but ope day when he is
here now he come by Spinel for a sand¬
wich. He is very sorry for seeing me in
those place. He does not like to see Ben
Rasp make soda-jerk-a, no. He know I
am playing the oboe in the big Sinfonia
Romana, which is now twenty years. He
tell me he have an oboe which is now
sick. If I will play, he will make a job for
Ben, he fix it. So now I am playing.”
“And how about your union card?”
The man shrugged again.
“You like to see him, maybe, my
carta? I show you.”
“Never mind,” said John, a little de¬
flated by his failure to uncover a mys¬
tery. “But Ben Rasp isn’t an Italian
name, is it?”
The man’s yellowish teeth gleamed.
“In America she is Rasp, but in Italy
she is Raspa, Mister.”
Quill had relaxed and had been lis¬
tening with some attention, but now he
cut the interview short:
“Okay, Freeward: we aint got all
night. You take that wop out and argue
outside if you want to, but we got to
get on with this business.”
He was interrupted there by the open¬
ing of a door.
A SMALL, grayish individual entered
the room and walked straight to
Quill’s chair, saying something into the
detective’s ear that had a remarkable ef¬
fect on him. The detective shouted:
“Huh? Whassat? You crazy?”
The little man was unperturbed.
“Take it or leave it. That’s my re¬
port, Quill.”
The detective said vehemently: “It
aint possible. It don’t make sense. Doc.”
The calm little man shrugged.
“It’s a fact,” he said quietly.
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
Quill seemed to pause, then came to
a rapid decision: “All right, the rest of
you,” he snapped at the musicians.
“That’s all for tonight. Get out of here,
now; but I want all of you at Headquar¬
ters tomorrow morning at nine. And
don’t try to sneak out. I got all your
names on a list.”
The soda-jerking oboist stepped back
with his colleagues, who were already fil¬
ing out of a rear door.
Q UILL got to his feet, motioning John
and the little man to follow. He
led them into a hallway down to a
closed door, where an officer stood guard.
The man stepped aside and let them
through into what might, so John
thought, be a dressing-room. It was not
large, but it was equipped with a table,
a dressing-stand and several chintz-cov¬
ered chairs. It had a feminine atmos¬
phere and reeked of face-powder. At one
side there was a chaise-longue with an
ominous-looking burden lying still upon
it, covered over with a blanket.
Quill introduced John to the little
man, saying:
“Meet Doc Bankler—coroner’s office.
Now what in hell are you trying to give
us, Doc? You can’t tell me Maldochini
was already dead when he was shot.”
“I can, 1 will, and I do, Quill,” said
the other stiffly. “There has been, of
course, no complete autopsy, but there is
every evidence the heart had already
ceased to function when the bullet en¬
tered his head.”
“But hell’s fire, there was a couple
thousand people sitting right there and
saw him keel over while he was beating
time on the platform.”
John supplied a comment.
“That’s right, sir. I was sitting in the
third row, myself—within thirty feet of
the platform, I should say, and I’m cer¬
tain he was alive up to the moment he
collapsed.”
Quill looked at the Doctor.
“Well?”
“I’m not entering any discussion.
Quill. I’m giving my findings. The heart
had most certainly stopped before the
bullet entered—how long before, I’m not
prepared to say.”
“But it isn’t possible.”
“On the contrary, it is quite possible,
if the man had taken one of certain
poisons, for instance—the poisons which
affect heart and nervous systems—”
Quill folded his arms and thrust his
head forward like a turtle, as he growled:
“You wanna make out he was a sui¬
cide? You wanna play he got murdered
twice? I’ll be a son—”
“I have made no such statement. My
business is with physiological fact, not
hypotheses, theories or even evidence. I
do not assume he was poisoned, or that 1
he took poison. Nothing of that nature
can be determined until a laboratory
analysis has been made, if then. I made
simple tests for common poisons. They
are negative. I make no official state¬
ment at all in that regard. But step here
a moment, and I’ll try to show you—”
He went to the chaise-longue and lift¬
ed the drape. The great Maldochini,
whom only minutes earlier John had seen
on the platform, a living, vital personal¬
ity-lay limp and lifeless, his snow-white
mane tangled and faintly blood-stained,
his olive face a trifle pale but still hand¬
some in death, his carefully barbered
eyebrows bristling over closed eyes.
Doctor Bankler pointed to a blemish
on the right temple.
“There has been very little blood.
There is no bluish mark around the
wound. Had the man been alive when
shot, there would have been a slow ooz¬
ing of blood, and a wound very differ¬
ent in appearance. I have no intention
of upsetting police theories. I merely
state facts. Now I—”
Quill nodded and looked crestfallen.
“And me with a clear case, hey? This
Frenchman is as good as convicted. All
I need is his gun, which is likely hid
around here some place. I get a simple
case of a nut who gets mad and plugs
another nut, and now you gimme a line
that when he’s shot, he’s dead already!
Jeepers creepers, I think I’m—”
He never completed his lament. There
was scuffling and excited talking outside
the door. A woman’s shrill angry voice
screeched, and the door was flung open.
T HE woman who came in was more
than all else, a startlingly beautiful
one. She had a regal manner, even in
what seemed a furious mood. She
wore one of those modish silken capes
with a pointed hood or cowl thrown
back to reveal her flushed but handsome
face. She stormed in, and the guard at
135
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
the door loomed behind her, crying fran¬
tically:
“Lady, lady, you can’t go in there.
You can’t—” But she was already inside,
slamming the heavy door almost in his
face, but not before John Freeward had
t noticed two red welts across his cheek
such as might have been made by angry
fingernails.
What happened then was pure drama.
T HE woman stopped short at the
door, her eyes staring in anguish at
the dead man lying on the chaise-longue
as Doctor Banklers hand still held the
withdrawn cover.
Then she screamed—in long, agoniz¬
ing bursts, pointing to the dead Mal-
dochini as though she had seen some
ghostly vision.
Then she hurled herself to the side of
the couch, flinging past Dr. Bankler, and
all but knocking the little man down in
her violence, crying:
“Josef! Ah, mon pauvre Josef!" And
she threw her arms around the prostrate
body, sobbing hysterically and babbling
incoherently in French.
Then suddenly she sat up stiff and
rigid, and screamed again.
“II est mort! He is deadl He is dead!”
She stared at the men in the room wild¬
ly, as though for a moment she imagined
that they had killed the man. Then she
flung herself again on the body, covering
the dead face with passionate, insensate
kisses.
John turned away from the scene. No
one likes to contemplate things like that;
and even Quill, after a moment of
amazed hesitation, took a step toward
the woman, saying:
“Now, listen, lady, I know it must be
E retty bad, coming in here and seeing
im like that. But that’s no way to let
go. Now, I’m from the police, lady, and
I’m trying to find out—”
He had pulled a tiger’s tail, however;
for the woman leaped to her feet, eyes
blazing, and spat at him:
“Imbecile! The police! Bah! What
do you know? What can you do?” And
she seemed about to throw herself at the
surprised detective in a blind fury.
This reaction was not in the rule-
books, and Quill’s sense of gallantry was
something less than his practice at han¬
dling hysterical females. So, without un¬
due gentleness, he took her by the shoul¬
ders and pushed her back toward the
wall.
“Easy, now, lady. This aint no way—”
Perhaps it was a sense of futility, or
possibly the consciousness of his muscu¬
lar hands; but from whatever cause, the
woman suddenly gasped and slumped to
the floor, half fainting.
The men lifted her up and set her in a
chair. The Doctor made professional
motions over her and held a flask from
his pocket under her nose; but for sev¬
eral unpleasant minutes they could not
bring her back to full consciousness, and
she lay back in the chair moaning in her
own language words which seemed dis¬
connected, yet appeared to be:
“Fille—la pile . . . Elle Va tui”
Quill looked at John.
“You know that lingo? I’m no Frog.”
John nodded. “It isn’t very clear, but
it seems to be that she’s accusing some
girl of killing him. However, I wouldn’t
be sure.”
“The hell you say? Now that puts it
But the woman’s eyes fluttered and she
began to sit up in the chair, as Quill
broke off in his comment, saying:
“That’s better. You all right now,
lady? I got to ask you some questions.
You don’t have to answer them, only it’ll
help a lot if you want to find out who
killed the maestro.”
The woman seemed to pull herself to¬
gether with surprising strength.
“It is understood,” she said evenly;
and Quill began with the usual proce¬
dure of identifying her.
J OHN had guessed who she was, of
course. Her Frenchness, her evident
passion for the dead Maldochini, could
scarcely escape association with Wen-
galle’s description of the singer Yvonne
Blanchamps. But the more he thought
of it, seeing her there under astounding
self-control, the more amazed he was.
She scarcely seemed a woman likely to
have such liaisons, least of all to let the
world know of them.
Her story to Quill was quite simple.
Her solo, she said, was scheduled for
ten-forty-five, but she had left her hotel
at ten in order to be composed and re¬
laxed before stepping onto the platform.
By an ironical coincidence, it was her
own dressing-room which Quill had cho¬
sen for Dr. Bankler to examine the body
in, after the first examination on the
scene of death. She had not known of
the maestro’s accident until her arrival;
and it was not only credible but natural
that she should have been deeply shaken
by the sight of him there.
136
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
All this took some time in the telling,
for Quill was persistent in his search for
connected detail. However, he said at
length:
“All right, lady; now there’s one more
thing: When you were all upset awhile
ago, you made some crack in French
about a woman. That meant something,
and I want to know what.”
The singer shrugged.
“Did 1?” she said. “But—how natural
for a woman to suspect another woman.
Believe me, monsieur, with the maestro
it is always the women.”
“So you think a woman killed him?
What woman?”
“Ah, ga! But Josef Maldochini, he
was such a man that always some silly
woman is dying of love for him. I do
not know which especial woman, no.
But I am frank, monsieur. For six years
I am—how you say? The amie, the
friend, of this great man. And always it
is some jeune fille which is ready to kill
him when she discover that it is me
which he love. It is as we say in the
French, cherchez la femme, no? But
with so many, I cannot say where you
must look, monsieur.”
She was very composed now, and it
was evident that she would give no more
information on that point, so Quill did
not press the point. Instead he picked
her up on this bit of confession, saying:
“So you admit that Maldochini loved
you, eh?”
“But of a verity, monsieur. All the
world knows that.” She was not precisely
brazen; she was all but proud in her
statement; and Quill frowned as he
asked the next question.
“I thought you were married, Miss
Blangshongs. How about it?”
She nodded, saying: “Of course.”
“Not divorced?”
“No.”
“And your husband—he approved of
your—friendship with the maestro?”
She seemed faintly amused. She said:
“For the artiste, monsieur, the love
and the marriage, is not always one same
thing. My husband, he is French. He
understands the manage de convenance”
UILL’S simple code was scandalized,
and he said:
Nice, isn’t it? And just where is
your husband?”
“How would I know that, monsieur?
Six years he is in America, while I am in
Italy or in France—anywhere. Some let¬
ters come from America. But until last
night at the rehearsal, I have not seen
him.”
“You mean right here? You saw him
here?”
“Naturally, since he plays in the or¬
chestra. And why not? We are the good
friends.”
“Oh, he plays in the orchestra, does
he? What’s his name?”
“But it is Basile Ambin —premier vio¬
lin. That is no secret, monsieur.”
Quill contemplated that, then shot at
her suddenly:
“And this Marcel Bloc, you know
him too?”
“For many years,” she smiled. “Before
I am married with Basile.”
“You seem to get around a lot,” said
Quill with heavy sarcasm, but the
Frenchwoman either ignored or did not
understand the implication, and replied
with a shrug:
“The life, it is for living, monsieur.
When one is of the temperament ar¬
tiste—” The lift of her shoulders seemed
to say that persons of her world were
mere toys of their destiny.
W ITH sudden decision Quill got to
his feet.
“Okay, modom,” he said. “That’ll be
all for tonight.” Then he raised his
voice:
“Callahan!”
The guard at the door thrust in his
head.
“Take the lady to the door. Tell Har¬
ris and Feeney to see her to her hotel.”
The singer’s face was inscrutable.
“Merci, monsieur” she said. “So hap¬
py to be of service.”
The policeman named Callahan said:
“There’s a couple dozen reporters out¬
side, Chief. You want I should—”
“No,” snapped Quill. “On your way.
Good night, Miss Blangshongs.”
The singer left, and Quill got into his
coat and vest before he turned to the
Doctor, saying:
“Coming, Doc?” The little man nod¬
ded and walked toward the door. Quill
glared at John.
“Aint you got no place to go, son?” he
growled.
John emerged from profound revery
in which the pretty face of Cora Sue
Graybourne played a prominent part,
and stammered:
“Why—why, yes sir—”
“Then get on your way. I don’t want
no D.A. man around here when the cam¬
era men come. That Latismer gets his
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
picture taken plenty without some young
cub from his office bustin’ into print.”
John was too disconcerted to reply,
and Quill seemed to let it go at that,
turning to leave. But in the very door¬
way, he called over his shoulder:
“And listen, son, you go out the front
way—through the auditorium, you hear?
This whole place will be lousy with re¬
porters in a couple of minutes.”
Then he stalked out, and the door
closed.
John was annoyed. Who was this
Lieutenant Quill—to push him around?
If Quill were as smart as he pretended
to be, then he might have paid a little
attention when John had found out that
this oboist Rasp was working in a drug¬
store, and had just got a job from Mal-
dochini. Maybe it didn’t mean anything,
but how could Quill know?
Freeward thrust his hat down on his
head and was about to walk out the door
when an odd and rather grim thing
caught his eye: The body of Giuseppe
Maldochini still lay on the couch under
its drape, all but concealed—waiting,
doubtless, for the police to take it away
to the morgue. What called his atten¬
tion to it was the fact that one of the
hands had dropped down from its orig¬
inal position across the chest, and was
dangling from under the drape: a grisly
sight, an ugly one.
A N unconscious impulse prompted
l Freeward to step over and throw
back the drape, intending to lift the hand
and rearrange it again.
But as he touched the dead arm, he
found it stiffening. It resisted his mild
effort to lift the arm, and his hand slid
along the soft broadcloth sleeve. Sud¬
denly his fingers encountered something
that scratched faintly in the texture of
the cloth. On examination, he found that
a small fragment of a broken needle,
with a short piece of black thread at¬
tached, was buried in the material.
Curiosity inspired him to pluck the
thing out of the dead man’s sleeve, and
to puzzle over its possible meaning for a
few seconds, as he held it in his fingers.
“Damned queer that they didn’t pick
this right out—Quill or whoever exam¬
ined him at first,” he thought reason¬
ably; and he was inwardly amused at the
picture of this erstwhile Great Man sew¬
ing on his own buttons and breaking his
needles, showing masculine clumsiness
despite his exquisite manner and those
delicate hands of a musician.
The sound of scuffling feet in the out¬
er hall broke into his reverie, however,
and on impulse which was partly habit,
he thrust the broken bit of steel into his
own lapel. That would be Quill and his
reporters, he thought. No use getting
roared at. And so he hurried out of the
door and turned down toward the audi¬
torium entrance.
C ora Sue Graybourne shared a mod¬
est apartment in a good neighbor¬
hood with Phyllis Dent, a salty young
woman three years her senior. Phyllis
was as plain as Cora Sue was attractive;
yet she had a dry wit and a hard-headed
sense of logic. She had a job as secretary
to one of the curators of the Blair Mu¬
seum, and devoted herself to extra studies
in anthropology under her employer’s
tutelage. Oddly enough, Phyllis used
this fact to explain her lack of social suc¬
cess with men.
“When you’ve handled a few thousand
skulls of the homo sapiens in the fossil
state,” she used to say, “you may find
mere males tiresome. Also, it’s hard to
be sparkling with a man, when you’re
subconsciously classifying him as a spec¬
imen-asthenic or pyknic, you know.
Anyhow, I like them better as fossils.
Nobody ever heard of a fossil making
passes.”
On the evening of the concert, Phyllis
had retired early and when she heard a
key in the front door, followed by Cora
Sue’s step in the hall, she was mildly
astonished, for the hour was only ten-
thirty. And when Cora Sue did not—as
was her habit—come bursting into the
room all agog over her newest musical
sensation, Phyllis was properly curious
and went to investigate.
Cora Sue was sitting on the lounge in
their tiny living-room, in tears.
“What’s wrong. Sue?” Phyllis asked,
and she hurried to be of comfort, add¬
ing in her casual way: “Has that young
Freeward decamped with a blonde?
Don’t let it get you down, my dear. He’s
an absolute pyknic type—”
“Please!” said Cora Sue, and her
voice was tragic. “It isn’t Johnny. It’s—
oh, it’s just awful!”
“Bad as that, eh? Well, you’d better
get that mock-mink off; then you come
and tell Auntie Phyl about it. I’ve got a
bosom to cry on,” she added, with ari-’i-
er attempt at lightness. “A little flat s
bosoms go today, but serviceable.”
Cora Sue made an attempt to sir. !e,
but its result was merely pathetic.
138
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
“Phyll” she said; and then: “He’s
dead—he’s deadl It’s terrible!”
“Who’s dead? Not John Freeward, I
hope.”
The chestnut curls shook a denial.
“Mr. Maldochini,” she got out. “She
—she murdered him.”
Instead of taking this as tragedy, Phyl¬
lis was faintly reassured. Hyperbole, of
course. Just a Southern way of saying
something unpleasant had happened.
She put her arms around her friend and
led her back into the bedroom. Pres¬
ently she tried again:
“Better let’s have it. Sue,” she said.
“You’ll feel better if you tell it. Besides,
I couldn’t sleep until I know now. What
really did happen?”
“Why—why, Mr. Maldochini is dead,”
Cora Sue said, and: “Oh, I’ve been such a
fool."
Phyllis frowned.
“You don’t mean—literally? Literally
dead? And if you’ve been a fool—”
“Oh, please!” Sue pleaded. “Please be¬
lieve me. He fell down dead right in the
—at the concert. And—and I know she
killed him, and—”
“Good Lord! Who did kill him, then?
What in the world are you trying to say.
Sue?”
W ITH some effort Cora Sue pulled
herself together.
“I’ll try to tell you. You see, I had to
leave Johnny with Mr. Wengalle before
the concert, because Mr. Schuldrein
needed special photographs of Miss Blan-
champs and the only appointment we
could get with the photographer was just
before the opening, and—”
“Listen, honey, I want to know about
a murder.”
“But I’m telling you. I went to Mr.
Schuldrein’s little office upstairs in the
Vanderstitt Building, and Miss Blan-
champs and Baron de Siis, the photogra¬
pher were there. That was about fifteen
minutes before the program went on. It
didn’t take long, and I hurried back
downstairs to join Johnny, and I met Mr.
Maldochini in the hallway,”
“Ah, now it comes out.”
“Wait! He was coming down from
the rehearsal-rooms, and he stopped and
talked to me.”
“Why shouldn’t he? You made him
practically a god.”
“Yes, but he was—well, personal. I
guess I was silly to be flattered, Phyl, but
I was. He hard’ ’ ’ ’ r ”
“Ah, vanity!”
“But this time he kissed my hand and
asked me about my work and—you see,
we were standing in an angle of the hall
by the stairs, talking for several minutes,
and I—I saw a piece of thread or some¬
thing stuck to his coat-sleeve, so I just
picked it off. And I said something very
foolish, too. But it didn’t mean any¬
thing. I said: ‘You ought to have a
woman around to sew on your buttons,
Mr. Maldochini.’ That’s what I said, be¬
cause there was a broken piece of needle
on the thread, anti he took a wrong
meaning in it, and—oh, Phyll It was ter¬
rible.”
“Well, you’re good at keeping it a se¬
cret! What did happen?”
“He grabbed at me and took my hand
and pulled me close to him, and he tried
to kiss me. He was all—”
“The old devil! So you gave him the
classical slap in his artistic face?”
“I tried to pull away, but he held me.
I think he went a little crazy. He kept
calling me madonna mia and saying
things in Italian and pawing me and—I
was scared and disgusted, and if she
hadn’t come just then—”
“She? Who?”
“Miss Blanchamps. She must have
been standing there all the time—around
the angle of the hall. And she was mad.
I don’t mean just angry; she acted as
though she were out of her mind. It was
awful. I was so afraid and so—humiliat¬
ed. She screeched at me and slapped me
and pulled me away, and tore my dress.
And then she started for Mr. Maldo¬
chini—”
“She seems to have been a real tiger
lady.”
“Oh, she was. She tried to scratch
him, and she did slap him, too, just be¬
fore I ran.”
“So you ran?”
“I had to. Not only because I was
afraid, but—I wanted to be alone. I felt
so-so soiled and vile. I ran down the
hall into one of the empty dressing-
rooms. I wanted to fix my hair and dress
before I went back to Johnny and Mr.
Wengalle.”
"OUT what about the murder? You
1) said she murdered him.”
“I know she did—later. She had mur¬
der in her eyes, Phyl. But Mr. Mal¬
dochini must have got her calmed down
then, because I heard him walking past
the door on his way to join his men; and
then when the orchestra started playing,
I knew it was all right.”
139
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Well, get to the murder. Sue.”
“Wait. I tried to go back to our seats
then, but I couldn’t because they were
playing. I stood at the entrance to the
auditorium for a minute. That was
when Marcel Bloc went crazy and started
making that awful scene. I tried to creep
along the side aisle while they were tak¬
ing him out back, but I thought I’d go
out to the ladies’ room until the inter¬
mission between the first and second
movements. That was when I saw Miss
Blanchamps again.”
“What a ubiquitous lady!”
“She was going into one of those pri¬
vate stalls—you know, the places where
rich season-ticket people sit. She didn’t
see me. She had one of those hooded
wraps on, and it covered her eyes and
most of her face, but I knew her of
course. She just went in there and
closed the door. There wasn’t any¬
body in the mezzanine lounge except the
two ushers and another man and Mr.
Bloc, and they were having their hands
full taking him downstairs.”
Phyllis was impatient.
“Please get to the point. Sue. If Mal-
dochini was murdered—”
“That was later. I went back to
Johnny then, and they started playing
the second movement of that Priere
thing. There’s a long crescendo at the
end, and the orchestra was playing loudly,
and—well, Maldochini just collapsed.”
“Yes?”
“And I know she shot him from that
stall. They’re all soundproofed on three
sides, and you couldn’t hear a shot
against the sound of the music.”
Phyllis was frowning.
“But you didn’t see her?”
“Of course not. But she was there—”
“Then what makes you— Hold on,
now. Sue, you can’t go screaming the
word murder about like that. Heaven
knows you had a bad time of it, and
you’re all worked up; but murder—
that’s a serious charge.”
“I know it is, but don’t you see? Mr.
Wengalle took me home when Johnny
didn’t come back. He said Mr. Latismer
had Johnny paged. That proves there
was a murder, or the D.A. wouldn’t be
interested. And Mr. Wengalle told me a
lot about Miss Blanchamps and Mr. Mal¬
dochini. They—she was his—”
“So I supposed. And she caught him
pawing you and threw a jealous scene.
That gives her a possible motive, my
dear, but in court it wouldn’t prove any¬
thing definite, and—”
She was interrupted by the buzzing
of the front door-bell. Phyllis remarked
with annoyance:
“That’ll be John Freeward coming to
tell you all about it. I think you’d bet¬
ter not see him. Sue. Wait till tomorrow.
You go to bed and I’ll answer the bell.
One look at me in curlers and face-cream
will scare him away, anyhow. Jump into
bed, now. I’ll find out what really did
happen and tell you.”
But it was not John Freeward at the
door, and it was only seconds after Phyl¬
lis had hurried down the hall that Cora
Sue heard her give a loud, startled
scream. Phyllis Dent was not a girl to
scream without justifiable cause.
CHAPTER IV
O NE does not, ordinarily, picture the
cop on the comer in the role of a
family man; yet he very likely enjoys
marriage, home and fatherhood in quite
the same manner as your butcher, baker
or candlestick-maker. Lieutenant Quill,
for instance, may have been a grim nem¬
esis of crime and a stern officer in the
discipline of his several subordinates in
the Homicide Bureau; yet when his day
was ended in the service of the People,
even he could return to home, fireside
and slippers, where his motherly little
wife invariably awaited him.
Mrs. Quill’s name was Wilhelmina but
she was called “Minnie” because the
diminutive suited her exactly. On this
articular night she was waiting for her
usband in the “settin’-room” of their
modest little flat, patiently darning his
official socks, and thinking good, happy
thoughts and watching the hands of her
mantel clock as the hours slipped away.
It was twelve minutes past midnight
now, and little furrows were growing
above Minnie Quill’s gentle eyes. Not
that she was unduly alarmed by the late¬
ness of the hour. After twenty years of
being a policeman’s wife, she had grown
both philosophical and fatalistic about
her husband’s hours. Still, there is a
fateful feeling about the hour of mid¬
night; and when James J. failed to re¬
turn before twelve, Minnie always knew
he was on another of those “big jobs.”
The rattle of keys in the front door.
140
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
however, drove the furrows away. The
heavy tread of the detective’s feet in the
hall caused Minnie to relax and to settle
back into her chair with a feeling of hon¬
est relief as she called out:
“That you, Jim?”
“Uh-huhl” came the answer, and a
serene smile spread over Minnie’s face.
Quill came in and sat down in the big
leather chair which was always reserved
for him. It was his habit, when coming
home, to remove first his coat, holster,
and shoes, and then to shove his feet
into the slippers which Minnie always
had handy for him. Tonight, however,
he merely sat. He had not even removed
his overcoat and hat. He just sat, staring
at the toes of his shoes.
“Matter, Tim? Bad day?”
The burly detective looked a little
'boyish, then, and gave her a smile.
“No, Mamma, not bad. Just queer.”
“New case?”
“Yup. Murder.”
Mrs. Quill was properly shocked.
“Ts-ts, ts-ts!” she clucked. “Seems like
folks are getting worse and worse. Any¬
body important?”
“Kinda. Orchestra-leader—an old wop
called Maldochini, Mamma. Funny, too,
because somebody fixed his wagon right
while he was on the platform at Vander-
stitt, waving his stick.”
Minnie stared. “You mean they shot
him, right in front of everybody?”
“They shot him, all right, but maybe
that aint what killed him.”
“How you mean, Jim?”
“Dunno myself. Mamma. Told you it
was a funny case. Doc Bankler, he said
the feller didn’t die of gunshot. Said it
looked like heart-failure.”
“Heart-failure? Then it aint a mur¬
der?”
“Guess it’s murder, all right, though."
“How? You got the man that shot
him?”
Quill did not answer that directly. A
deep frown darkened his face and he let
his head drop down on his chest until
his face was almost lost in his tumed-up
collar. Minnie watched him in silence
for several minutes, then she said:
“You’re not happy, Jim. Got some¬
thing on your mind?”
He lifted his head to say,
“Just tired, I guess. Mamma. Guess
we’re getting old.”
“Nonsense, Jim Quill. You got con¬
science-trouble. Don’t try and fool me.”
He smiled at that, and replied:
“Maybe it is conscience. Maybe I’m
141
just a dumb flatty. Mamma. Maybe I
aint got the guts to believe what I think
I believe. Maybe I’m scared of the news¬
papers. This aint a city like New York or
Boston or Philadelphia, where—” His
voice trailed off.
Minnie looked up sharply.
“That aint like you, Jim. I don’t be¬
lieve it, neither.” She laid her darning
down and came over to him, laying her
cool, soft hand on his hair, taking off his
hat, rubbing his forehead.
“What’s troubling you, Jim?” she
asked him point blank.
“Mamma,” he said, “always I been a
pretty good cop. I try to give folks a
square deal—even crooks and murderers.
But sometimes things is queer, and a
feller don’t know what to do.”
He again went into pensive silence.
“You’re a good man, Jim,” said his
wife. “Folks trust you. You got a good
conscience.”
Still he was silent. She went on:
“Conscience is a good thing, too. It’s
on the cops. It’s a kind of personal cop.
Keeps peace inside us.”
Jim nodded. “I know. Mamma,” he
said, very heavily.
She sat down now, and picked up her
darning.
“Then if you still know that, every¬
thing’s all right, Jim. Better go to bed.
You’re tired.”
But he did not go to bed then. He
fumbled with his watch-fob and toyed
with its golden baseball. He fidgeted and
squirmed and puffed and wheezed and
twisted in his chair. And then, with a
sudden resolution, he got out of his seat
and stepped to the telephone on the wall
out in the hallway. After he had asked
for a number, he said:
“Hello, that you. Mack? Quill, here.
Gimme somebody down there, will you?
Gimme Barcomb. ... He aint there?
Then put Russell on. Hurry it up. I
aint got all night.”
W HEN a new voice vibrated over the
wire, he said crisply:
“That you. Cap? Tnis is Quill. I
want you should change the set-up on
that Maldochini business. I want you
should turn that Frog loose. Yeah, I
mean him—Marcel Bloc.”
And after a lengthy comment had
been made at the other end, he went on:
“That’s right, sir, I want to withdraw
charges. Sure, he disturbed the peace,
but who cares? Let him go. He never
killed Maldochini. What’s that? The
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
newspapers? Sure, they’ll make a row—
and so what? We aint afraid of the news¬
papers, Cap. Besides, when this thing is
cleared up, there maybe aint any mur¬
der at all, and we’re gonna get it hot
from the press boys no matter which....
Okay, Cap. Thanks. So long.”
Then he hung up and went back to
the sitting-room and stood over Minnie
? uill’s chair, and kissed her gray hair.
here were years of love and confidence
and mutual respect in that brief kiss.
But the telephone rang sharply then,
and he grumbled as he stepped back
into the hall.
“Yes. Sure, this is Quill,” he growled
into the instrument. “Hello, Feeney,
what you got on. . . . What? For the
love of Mike! Okay, I’ll be right over.”
Then he called out to Minnie:
“Mamma,” he said, “that Maldochini
didn’t die of heart-disease. Now we got
another stiff on our hands.”
C larence Dillion, assistant D.A., was
the perfect functionary. Once upon
a time a member of the staff, speaking of
Dillion, had suggested that he might have
a “red-tapeworm” in his innards, a soph¬
ism more apt than humorous. His me¬
ticulous love for detail and triviality was
exceeded only by his passion for rule,
regulation and formality.
Dillion was talking to John Freeward
across Mr. Latismer’s desk, for the assist¬
ant had not wasted time in establishing
himself in the famous prosecutor’s sanc¬
tum as soon as his chief had departed.
“An absurd, stupid and blundering re¬
port, Freeward,” he was saying in a voice
that suggested a scratchy phonograph
record. “It tells nothing which is not
available in the newspapers. Not one
solid fact in your whole ten pages.
Frankly, I am surprised that Mr. Latis-
mer should have entrusted you with such
a thing. Apparently you are not fitted
for the simple business of writing down
factual information. I think—”
John tried to curb that rising temper
of his. He said, meekly enough:
“I’m very sorry, sir. I can only say
that I did report just what I saw—to the
best of my apparently limited ability.
For instance, there’s Dr. Bankler’s prelim¬
inary finding that the bullet did not—”
“True, but the interpretation seems
to be your own. Bankler reported a fact.
You drew an inference. Not your busi¬
ness.”
“But if the bullet didn’t kill him, then
why arrest Marcel Bloc?”
Dillion smiled.
“Another fact that seems to have es¬
caped you is that Bloc has been released.
How does it happen that a representa¬
tive of the People’s Attorney would not
obtain information that—”
“Because Quill practically threw me
out, sir. I—”
“Ridiculous. Your position on this
staff gives you the authority to be pres¬
ent at an investigator’s elbow. We need
men who can use their authority. This
is not a detective bureau, but a law office
—the People’s law office. We do not pri¬
marily investigate crime. Our only inter¬
est in police findings is—”
“Just one minute, Mr. Dillion! If you
don’t like my report. I’m sorry. I did my
best on a new job. But I don’t have to
stand here and listen to a lot of—”
The telephone on Dillion’s desk rang
just in time to prevent him from com¬
pleting his angry outburst. For Dillion,
presumably acting upon the principle
that any telephone-call is potentially of
more importance than the spluttering of
a third assistant, turned his back and
lifted the receiver. He conversed in
monosyllables, coldly, without evident
emotion, and he ended upon the phrase:
“You want him? I’ll send him down,
then.”
Whereupon he turned a dull eye upon
John once more.
“As I was saying,” he resumed, “that
report lacks all the essentials. We re¬
quire less deduction and more follow-
through in this office. However, you
seem to have made an impression on
Lieutenant Quill; at any rate, he wants
you at Headquarters immediately. That’s
all. Don’t delay.”
John swallowed his resentment and
was turning to leave, when Dillon called
him back with one last thrust:
“And for your personal information,
as well as an addendum to your report,
it would have been an excellent thing
had you included the fact that the singer
Yvonne Blanchamps died last night at
about eleven o’clock.”
Tieutenant Quill sat at his desk puff-
JL ingapipe.
“Sit down, young Freeward,” he said.
“This is only part official;”
John seated himself in a hardwood
chair. He was beginning to dislike his
work in the service of the People. Quill’s
next remark was a startling question:
“You got a girl-friend named Gray-
bourne, aint you, son?”
142
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
“Why—why, yes,” John stammered.
"She’s my—my fiancee.”
“Works for this feller Schuldrein?
Handles musicians’ press-stories? Lives
uptown?”
John began to resent this inquest into
his private affairs, and his instinctive
protective sense for Cora Sue made him
say:
“I’m damned if I see why my personal
acquaintances are any business of yours.”
Quill gave him a sharp look.
“Yeah? Well, maybe they are, at that.
That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I saw your gal last night. She
mentioned you, kind of. And now I’m
trying to figure how come this French
singer Blangshongs goes and gets her¬
self stabbed right in front of your gal’s
flat. Maybe you got some ideas, eh, son?”
J OHN was gasping with astonishment
and concern.
“You mean she—she was—murdered
there?”
“I don’t mean nothing else. From
what we figure, she came there and rang
your girl-friend’s doorbell just before
somebody handed her a dose of steel that
cut her spine practically in two. That
was around eleven. My man Feeney
called me, but I didn’t get there until
around twelve.”
“But—for heaven’s sake, man, you
can’t think—you can’t put a girl like
Cora Sue Graybourne—”
“No? Maybe not; but that’s where
the French dame was killed, and we can
prove she was on her way to see your
gal when she got it.”
“I don’t believe it,” John said flatly.
“There is some mix-up somewhere. Miss
Blanchamps barely knew my—Miss Gray¬
bourne, and they had nothing personal
between them; and to be calling at that
hour—”
Quill broke in:
“That’s all very swell, but suppose you
let me tell you about it, son, before you
start telling me. You was there with
me when that singer handed us the gag
about not leaving her hotel before the
time she came down to sing? Well, she
was a liar by the clock. Think I didn’t
check a story like that? And you remem¬
ber I sent a couple men to take her
home? Feeney and Harris, I sent—a cou¬
ple smart boys. They took her to the
hotel, all right, and she went to her
rooms. But right away she puts in a
telephone-call, and then she sneaks out
through the flower-shop and grabs a
taxi.”
John broke in:
“That’s interesting, but I don’t see
how it applies to Miss Graybourne.”
“Then wait till I tell you. Harris is
a good dick, and he is right there at the
operator’s desk when Blangshongs makes
that call, so he listens in. Feeney is look¬
ing for a smart play, and he is outside
when she takes that cab, so he tails her.
Feeney is behind her in another cab,
only he loses her at Third Avenue, on
account there is a fleet of vegetable
trucks which ties up his car. But when
he gets through, there aint any sign on
the street of either the dame or her cab,
but he’s pretty sure she has got out in
that block, so he hangs around. Pretty
soon there is a patrol car comes through
and stops in front of 2344, and so Feeney
naturally takes a look.”
John was staring wide-eyed.
“So Feeney is with those cops when
they pick up the body, and he identifies
Blangshongs right away, and phones me
—gets me out of bed, too. Now, there is
a jane named Dent who lives with your
girl. She’s the one who calls the cops,
see? Her story is that she hears her bell
ring and goes to the door, and finds La
Blangshongs lying there in a lot of
blood, and lets out a yell. She says your
gal was in bed at the time.”
“Why—that’s terrible,” John managed
to say; “still, I don’t see how it proves—”
Q UILL shrugged. “No? Well, my
man Harris says the singer’s tele¬
phone-call was to this Schuldrein.”
“So what? He’s her manager and her
agent.”
“Yeah? But she asked him for the ad¬
dress of your girl-friend, Miss Gray¬
bourne. Now work on that one: And
when she drives up to see her, she gets
stabbed right in front of your gal’s door.”
“But—but why would she want to
know Cora Sue’s—”
“I can tell you that one, too. Schul¬
drein was down here all morning, and
he told me she wanted to apologize.”
"Apologize? To—to Miss Graybourne?
You’re crazy.”
“That’s what she told Schuldrein, any¬
how, and it struck me as queer she would
want to apologize to her press-agent just
after her sugar daddy, Maldochini, has
been killed—and at nearly midnight.”
“But—but it doesn’t make any sense!
There’s a misunderstanding. It’s a coin¬
cidence.”
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Coincidence, my eye! And there aint
no misunderstanding about why she
wanted to apologize—if she did. Those
two dames had a helluva row last night,
just before the concert. I suppose you
didn’t krtow that, eh, son?”
"A ROW!” John was scornful. “That’s
/"\ absurd. In the first place, I was
with Miss Graybourne at that concert;
and in the second place, she isn’t the kind
of a girl to have rows.”
“No? Well, maybe you got a nicer
name for it when one dame smacks an¬
other one in the eye and pulls her hair!
And as to her being with you, Schuldrein
tells me Miss Graybourne was upstairs
in the Vanderstitt Building in his office
while the Blangshongs dame was having
her picture taken by a snooty photog¬
rapher.”
“Oh!” That “Oh!” was as much a
sound of deflation as of surprise, for he
recalled suddenly the alarming truth of
What Quill was saying. Cora Sue had
left him in the lobby. She had men¬
tioned those photographs. She had been
away nearly half an hour before she re¬
turned to join them in the seats. And
she had behaved in a peculiarly strained
manner when she came back. Not only
that, but her incoherent words when the
maestro had fallen to the platform—
He said, “Oh! Why—why, yes, she did;
that’s right.”
“Sure it is, and she left Schuldrein’s
office alone; and when Schuldrein and
the Blangshongs came behind her, they
found her in a tussle with this same Mal-
dochini, who ups and dies about ten
minutes later. So I ask you, son—”
“A—a tussle!”
“Something like that. Schuldrein says
the old man had a hold of her, anyhow,
and when the Blangshongs saw it, she
went haywire and took a swing at both
of them, the girl and the old maestro.
From what I get, that French dame must
have been a holy terror when she was
worked up mad. Schuldrein says he had
a helluva time to keep her from pulling
Maldochini apart after your gal ran off.”
John was without speech. To picture
the delicate, exquisite, sensitive Cora Sue
in a hair-pulling brawl with another
woman was an impossibility. He still
was unconvinced, and said so.
“What does Cora—Miss Graybourne
say about it? Didn’t you talk to her?”
“That’s just why I got you down here.
She wouldn’t say a word last night. Be¬
sides, that Dent gal which lives with her
—a hard-boiled chicken if ever I saw One,
too—she wouldn’t let the other one so
much as spell her name without we call
up her lawyer, a feller named John Free-
ward—a big shot in the D.A.’s office.’*
Quill grinned as he said this last, but
John was beyond trifling humor.
“Then why in thunder didn’t you?”
he demanded.
“Because it sounded like a gag. Every¬
body who ever has a jam with the cops
always knows some big shot somewhere,
from the President on down. And also,
I wanted to get a line on this Schuldrein
before you stuck your oar in, and I figure
it could all wait till morning. Anyhow, I
did call you now, didn’t I? I want you
to help me make those gals open up. ’
John’s skepticism was not quite real
as he said:
“But what makes you think they have
anything to conceal?”
"Maybe they haven’t; but one way or
another, I got to find out. Now you lis¬
ten here: there’s a special inquest this
afternoon at two o’clock, besides which
there’s the Maldochini inquest right aft¬
er it. If I have to call thetti kids down
for ’em, they’re going to be smeared all
over the tabloids. You wouldn’t want
that, would you?”
John’s face was decidedly negative.
Quill went on:
“Thus far I been able to keep the
newspapers away from the Blangshongs
story, but 1 can’t hold out on ’em much
longer. It aint only one murder I got;
it’s two, with Maldochini—”
“But there isn’t any connection; and
besides Dr. Bankler said that bullet
didn’t—”
“To hell with Bankler! The maes¬
tro’s dead, aint he? And we pulled a .22-
caliber bullet out ol his head. Maybe it
was heart-failure that killed him, but
bullets is a new kind of heart-failure,
son. He died queer. So did Blangshongs
die queer. And the one pretty face that
I can see in both pictures is your little
Graybourne gal. Maybe it don’t mean a
thing, but I got to find that out. And if
those kids are holding out on me, I ei¬
ther got to turn the heat on ’em, or you
got to dig out the truth, that’s all. So if
I was you, I’d get started.”
OHN stood up, realizing the serious¬
ness of it, and remarking:
“It’ll be noort by the time I get to
Schuldrein’s, so—”
“You won’t likely find her at her of¬
fice. She was a plenty scared little kit-
144
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
ten last night, and I bet she’s right home
in bed today. It would be too bad to
have the newspaper boys up there with
her sick and them taking flashlights—”
John was on his way through the door.
B ORN and bred in a land where every-
wontan is a queen and may demand
queenly treatment from her men, Cora
Sue felt herself treated in a manner
which she could only describe as “some¬
thing scandalous.” And this treatment
had been at the hands of John Freeward,
who for well over three years had been
protesting ardent love and aspiring to
marriage.
No Southern gentleman, she told her¬
self, would permit any incident short of
an act of God to make him fail in his
simple social duty of escorting back to
her home the damsel he had “carried”
to a social function. Or if catastrophe
and Divine Will conspired to cause such
a lapse, no such gentleman, at least,
would have failed in the secondary duty
of communicating with the abandoned
damsel to assure himself that she had
been delivered to her door, properly and
in security.
But John was guilty of both infrac¬
tions. Moreover, it was clearly his fault
that “this dreadful thing” had crept in
and spawned on Cora Sue’s doorstep, so
to speak. But her anger began to lag
after nearly an hour of it, and the scared
young woman underneath began to show
through, so that at last John began to
approach the real business for which he
had come:
“Don’t you see?” he was pleading.
“Can’t you get it through your pretty
head that it isn’t a matter of whether or
not I was a gentleman? Never mind that
•now. . . . I’ll eat dirt and apologize ab¬
jectly, if I used bad judgment. But the
thing is that this is a murder. And you’re
tangled in it, Cora Sue. And dammit all,
in spite of the awful things you think
about me, I love you and I’m trying to
make you take it seriously. I’ve been
worried stiff ever since Quill told me
what did happen last night—”
Phyllis broke in:
“Quill? That will be that heavy-hand¬
ed gent who nearly had Sue in scream¬
ing hysterics last night until I told him
once for all that we wouldn’t talk with¬
out a lawyer.”
“I guess so. Anyhow, that’s what 1
came for. He knows a lot that you didn’t
tell him, and he’s determined to find out
more. And if you’ll only stop telling me
what a cad I am and let me know what
really happened—”
“Ah, the genteel stool-pigeon? We had
the impression that you would be on our
side, John,” remarked Phyllis with a
touch of bitterness.
“But I am. Good Lord, can’t either of
you understand that Quill is responsible
for keeping the story out of the news¬
papers? And just because he didn’t want
your names dragged into itl He could
have arrested you both and held you as
material witnesses. He’s not such a bad
sort if you—”
“I can’t say I go for the type myself,”
said Phyllis, “But I suppose one can’t
expect too much of the police depart¬
ment. Just what does he want to know?”
“Everything that happened—before. I
mean, what happened to Cora Sue when
she—. At Vanderstitt Hall before she
came back to her seat.”
T HE two girls glanced at each other,
and it was plain they had agreed be¬
tween themselves that this was to be kept
secret between them. But John startled
them both with:
“After all, he’s talked with Schuldrein;
and Schuldrein was with Yvonne Blan-
champs when she— Whatever she did
when she saw Cora Sue and Maldochini.”
“Oh, oh, but you didn’t tell me Mr.
Schuldrein was in your audience. Sue,”
Phyllis observed with a frown. “That
puts a different light on it.”
Cora Sue was blushing deeply. “I—I
didn’t know. I didn’t see him. Oh, what
am I going to do, Phyl?”
John said: “Why not let’s have the
story? I think I can be trusted to be—
well, discreet, if it calls for discretion.
Besides, Quill knows enough already to
make it pretty obvious that you had a
little—er—trouble with the maestro.”
She nodded, almost mechanically, and
her humiliation was painful to see.
“It was—awful, Johnny. I’m so
ashamed, so mortified. I never suspected
he was that kind of—”
“Likely not, honey, and don’t take it
too hard. Wengalle tells me the old boy
was a pretty crude number when it came
to women. Anyhow, you’re among
friends. Nobody here is going to think
145
THE BLUfc BOOK MAGAZINE
you intentionally led the man on. The
marble idol developed a case of clay feet,
that’s all. Now let’s have the story.”
I T was a severe effort for Cora Sue to
catalogue the events of that painful
twenty minutes to the man whom, de¬
spite her superficial annoyance, she real¬
ly cared for deeply. But she tried hard,
and bit by bit the story came out, punc¬
tuated with blushes and tears. When she
reached the part where she had remarked
the piece of thread and broken needle
in the conductor’s coat-sleeve, John
broke into her tale:
"Wait a moment,” he said. “Let me
get it straight: You actually saw a piece
of black thread on his sleeve? You
touched it, and it had a broken needle
in it?”
“Why—yes, that was when he—”
“Never mind that now,” said John in
tones of excitement. “You said you
pulled it out?”
“I did, and I dropped it when he—”
“Wait a minute.” John took out his
wallet, and from it an envelope. “Take
a look at this—was it by any chance the
same needle and thread?”
Cora Sue stared in amazement.
“Why—why, yes, that’s it, of course,”
she said at first; but then she changed
her mind. “No, it isn’t. It’s—almost the
same, but the thread is much shorter.
The thread that I picked off was nearly
three inches long, and this isn’t more
than an inch. Where in the world did
you get it?”
“I found it,” John said very slowly,
“stuck on Maldochini’s sleeve—only, that
was after he had been dead half an hour
or more.”
“Dead!” The word fell heavily. Then
she whispered: “But—that’s impossible.”
John told the exact circumstances of
his finding the thing. “I had intended
to give it to Quill or somebody—thought
they must have overlooked it—but I for¬
got it.” He added, reflectively: “And it
doesn’t make any sense that a man
should have two broken needles with
thread stuck in his coat. I could under¬
stand one, but—”
“It must be the same piece,” said ma¬
terialistic Phyllis. “After all. Sue wasn’t
in a state of mind to be a good judge.”
“No, it isn’t. It couldn’t be,” Cora Sue
insisted. “I remember it only too well. I
only happened to notice it in the first
place because it was dangling. And this
piece couldn’t dangle; it isn’t long
enough. Also I know I dropped the oth¬
er piece onto the floor when Mr. Maldo-
chirti—oh, you know what I mean. It
must be another thread.”
“Unless it isn’t what we think,” said
Phyllis. “I mean, unless he didn’t break
a needle sewing buttons, but somebody
else—no, that’s absurd, of course.”
John had barely listened to them. He
had been busy scrutinizing the queer lit¬
tle trophy, holding it in his fingers close
to the lamplight and frowning at it. Now
he exclaimed:
“Hello! This is a funny one. It isn’t
really a needle at all. It’s a tiny hollow
tube of steel, and the thread is stuck to
the end of it with glue or wax or some¬
thing. ... I think it’s wax. Now what
the devil can that mean?”
But there seemed no answer for his
rhetorical question, and the practical-
minded Phyllis reminded them that Cora
Sue had not yet finished her account of
the past evening’s misadventures. The
thread-enigma, therefore, was shelved
while the girl completed her tale.
And it was with grave misgiving that
John Freeward left the girls.
S TILL with that feeling of grave mis¬
giving, John Freeward entered the
big Headquarters building, for he was
aware that his talk with the girls had
continued for a considerably longer time
than Quill would have expected. And
his neglect to report the queer bit of pos¬
sible evidence presented by the needle,
worried him also. Quill, he knew, would
be annoyed and angry. And so when he
was finally admitted into the Lieuten¬
ant’s presence, it was this belated fact
rather than Cora Sue’s story which was
uppermost in his mind.
“Hello, son,” said Quill. “What luck?
Did the little lady tell Papa?”
The superficial heartiness of the greet¬
ing disconcerted John a little.
“Why, yes,” he began. “I guess I can
give you all the facts now; only there’s
one thing I intended to—”
Quill gave John a condescending sort
of smile.
“Well, it don’t matter much now,
does it?” he said.
“Doesn’t matter? Why not?”
Quill wrinkled his nose. “So they
didn’t tell you outside? Well, that’s all
right too. What I mean is, things has
happened since you went up there. We
got this case all signed, sealed and deliv¬
ered. Both cases, it looks like.” He
rubbed his hands. “My boys aint always
so dumb as folks think,” he added.
146
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
“You’ve got—you mean—you mean
you’ve found the—the murderer?”
“Sure. That feller Ambin—La Blang¬
shongs’ husband, which she said didn’t
care if she was on the loose. Hell, I had
a hunch all the time she was either kid-
din’ herself or us. Hell, no, he didn’t
care—he only cared enough to tickle her
with ten inches of knife in the back,
that’s all. Me, I don’t blame the poor
devil, either.”
“Basile—Ambin! But how could—”
“Well, it was luck, mostly,” admitted
Quill. “We might have figured it out,
but it was just a rookie cop on a beat
along Third Avenue that picked him up
—by mistake, too.”
“By mistake?”
“Sort of. Listen: I was plenty suspi¬
cious of that dame’s crack about mar¬
riage-de-convenience or whatever she
called it—I mean about her man not giv¬
ing a damn if she was thick with the
maestro, see? So naturally I had him
down on the list. And when he didn’t
show up this morning with the rest of
the musicians, I sent a man to his flat in
Greenwich Village to pick him up, and
we found out he hadn’t been there all
night. Well, I got it out of the bunch of
orchestra players that this Ambin and
Maklochini had a row the other day
when the old maestro walks into the re¬
hearsal with La Blangshongs on his arm,
see? The poor devil must’ve been nurs¬
ing his jealousy for years, and when she
waves the old boy right in his face, he
went off the handle, see?”
“Good God I What a mess!”
“I’ll say it was a mess. Those orchestra
fellers are plenty close, but they hated
Maklochini, and they didn’t mind let¬
ting that story out. So there I had me a
swell motive, coupled with the fact that
Ambin was out all night, and I was go¬
ing to have him picked up or send out
a bulletin on him, when that piece of
luck broke. Boy, I must of been eating
rabbits’ feet, what I mean. Because the
minute I flashed his name over the wire,
I got a call from the station telling me
they had him in the jug all night. Now
laugh that one off! That rookie cop seen
a feller acting suspicious and picked him
up, see?”
“Acting suspicious?” John repeated.
UILL nodded.
“I’ll say! He was sitting on the curb,
crying and making a helluva row
in some Guinea language. He had on
soup and fish and no overcoat, in spite
of how cold it was. And when this rookie
dragged him in, he jabbered a lot of
junk about somebody being dead or
killed or something, and they knew he
was nuts. Not only that; he had some
blood on his hands too, so they jugged
him. Well, he had plenty to identify
him as Ambin, including his musician’s
card. So when I sent that name out, the
chief up in that precinct called me right
back, and there he is.”
“You mean—he confessed?”
Quill frowned.
“No, he didn’t. He’s off his nut, I tell
you. He’s bughouse. He don’t know his
own name. All he does is sit and blubber
and talk to himself. But the lab shows
that the drops of blood on his hands are
her blood; besides which, he had a cheap
gat and a knife. We don’t need a confes¬
sion with that evidence, son. It’s an
open-and-shut case now.”
J OHN sensed a feeling of relief. At
least this would preclude any further
troubling of Cora Sue and Phyllis.
Still, it was not all clear to him about
Basile Ambin and he said so:
“But when did he kill his wife, Quill?
And how? I don’t see just how he
could—”
“That aint so hard to figure,” said the
detective. “It looks like Ambin was wait¬
ing for his wife at her hotel. Maybe he
meant to kill her there; I wouldn’t know.
But she had a couple of my men with
her when she arrived; and besides, she
went right out again, like we know. Am¬
bin must have seen her go out. It looks
like he followed her cab, and my man
Feeney didn’t notice it. You know Fee¬
ney got held up in traffic, which gives
Ambin time to slip into that house be¬
hind La Blangshongs and catch her on
the stairs and then make a get-away
across the roof to the house next door,
don’t it? We can’t prove all that, but it
could be that way. Anyhow, it was some¬
thing like that. Maybe the medics can
get him quieted down so’s he can remem¬
ber and talk. Anyhow, he’s booked for
a hospital, he’s that screwy.”
John nodded.
“But that doesn’t prove him guilty of
the Maldochini thing—you said it clears
up both cases.”
Quill grinned:
“Well, maybe I spoke out of turn then,
son, but it likely does, at that. The mo¬
tive is there and the intent, also we know
he threatened Maldochini when they had
that row. If we can ever bring that poor
147
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
devil back to sanity again, maybe we’ll
prove that one too.”
“I don’t think so,” John said, after a
moment’s thinking. “I have a hunch-
well, maybe more than a hunch, too. If
only Dr. Bankler hadn’t shown that the
bullet didn’t kill the maestro, I’d say—
oh, well, no matter if you think—”
“Spill it, son,” Quill broke in. “If you
got something, let’s have it. Anyhow,
you didn’t tell me about what your little
gal said yet.”
“That’s just it,” said John, and he
gave Quill the gist of Cora Sue’s story,
ending with: “Mind you, she was too up¬
set then to realize what she was saying,
but she felt that the woman was ready to
kill. And then, seeing her go into that
box and then Maldochini falling down
with a bullet in his head right after¬
ward—well, it does look as though Miss
Blanchamps—”
Quill was pondering:
“Yeah, it’s just possible that her hunch
was okay. If them loges are soundproof,
then anybody could fire a .22 pistol with¬
out being heard against the orchestra.”
But he shook his head almost immedi¬
ately.
“That’s all wet,” he said. “Them loges
are more than a hundred feet from the
f datform. It would take some plain and
ancy shooting to clip a man with a .22
pistol that far away and in that light.
Besides, if that old fool Bankler is right,
then—well, anyhow, she’s dead now, and
we can’t hold her for it. Anyhow, I’m
glad you told me that. Maybe a lot of
things will come out in the inquest.”
J OHN steeled himself for the ordeal of
giving Quill the broken needle and
its bit of thread, now that the rest
of the interview was finished, and he be¬
gan with:
“Now there’s just one thing, Quill,
and I’m very sorry I happened to—”
But the telephone jangled loudly, and
Quill raised his hand to request John to
wait as he lifted the receiver.
“Yes?” he roared. “This is Quill; what
of it?”
And then he let the instrument clatter
from his hand as he turned toward John
Freeward with an expression of utter
amazement on his rugged face.
"I’ll be a son of a—” he gasped. “This
feller Ambin is dead. He died right in
his cell twenty minutes ago. Gosh, I
can’t stand it; I’ll go nuts!”
“Dead! You mean—” John’s own
amazement was equal to Quill’s. The de¬
tective nodded abstractedly as he lifted
the instrument back to its cradle.
“Yeah,” he said dully. “And Doc
Bankler is working on him now. He said
it’s heart-failure. Hell, there’s too damn’
much heart-failure around for me! This
case gets screwier and screwier.”
But John Freeward was hurrying out
of the door. ... If Dillion wanted a
fact-report with new and vital informa-
CHAPTER V
M R. DILLION had behaved in pre¬
cisely the way John had expected,
in the way which was his natural man¬
ner, which is to say, caustic, categorical,
smug and unpleasant.
“After three hours, Freeward, I am de -'
lighted that you have found some free
time to devote to a mere job in this of¬
fice. Would you be good enough to let
us know what has required your—ah—in¬
valuable attention for all this time?”
John flushed involuntarily.
“I have been getting material for my
report on the Blanchamps case, Mr. Dil¬
lion,” he said evenly. “And I—”
“I don’t recall having instructed you
to report on that case,” said the assistant
D.A. “Your work on the Maldochini
case was scarcely able enough to warrant
your continuing along those lines. As a
matter of fact, I have turned the Blan¬
champs murder over to Mr. Greffiths.
Now you left here at three minutes after
ten, presumably to sit in with Lieutenant
Quill in some interview on the—”
“Then I might as well destroy these
notes, if you don’t want them,” said
John, holding up a handful of papers.
“I’m sorry you seem to consider my work
so futile.”
“Greffiths has already reported,” said
Dillion. “We are quite aware that Basile
Ambin is being held. Furthermore, the
entire story was given to the press an
hour ago. That case is apparently con¬
cluded. You may, however, leave your
notes with me and return to your regu¬
lar duties.”
John could not resist the urge to grin.
“All right, Mr. Dillion—if you’re quite
sure the office has all that’s necessary.
I guess I’m not much of a reporter.”
148
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR -1
“Quite certain* thank you. Greffiths is
preparing the brief for the People
against Ambin. Possibly it would be to
your advantage to sit in with him.”
“But there isn’t any case for the peo¬
ple against Ambin, Mr. Dillion,” said
John. “At least, not any more.”
Dillion’s round eyes widened.
“Just what do you mean, young man?”
“Only that—well, it looks as if Gref¬
fiths has left out one fact from his re¬
port.”
“What fact?”
“Oh, a mere detail, sir: the fact that
Basile Ambin is dead—so he can hardly
be tried, can he?”
Dillion’s jaw dropped.
“Ambin—is dead! Did you say dead?”
John nodded, and told him the
astounding news he had gotten in Quill’s
office, adding, as he saw that Dillion was
for the minute incapable of his usual
bristling pettiness:
“So I’d like very much to sit in on the
Maldochini inquest, this afternoon, sir.
It’s bound to be interesting and—er—in¬
structive; and since I’m still pretty green
at this sort of thing, I’d like to—”
Dillion nodded abstractedly as he
snapped the switch of his communica-
tions-box and said in a dull voice:
“Greffiths? Drop that Blanchamps
case and come in here directly.”
T HE inquest into the death of any
more or less public figure invariably
arouses interest; but in the case of
Giuseppe Maldochini, the interest had
assumed all but national proportions.
For the newspapers had pounced upon
the story and “played it up” until the
late maestro’s name had become con¬
fused with those of Beethoven and Casa¬
nova in the imaginations of Mr. and
Mrs. John Q. Public. One result of this
was an overcrowding of the room in
the Municipal Courts Building where
the inquest itself was held. And John
Freeward was duly amazed as he saw the
overflow at the courtroom door.
However, the inquest began to show
signs of flagging before he had spent
three weary hours in that stuffy room.
The first hour or so was consumed
with a reexamination of several of the
orchestra musicians; but beyond the fact
that all of them disliked the late conduc¬
tor and were impatient of his guest-
leadership, nothing of consequence was
learned. And even this impression was
clouded by the testimony of the oboist,
Ben Rasp,—the same whom John had rec¬
ognized as the “musical waiter” in Spi¬
nel’s sandwich bar,—who was voluble in
asserting that Maldochini had given him
his job out of pure loving-kindness.
The second hour was taken up with
such dry stuff as the testimony of a ballis¬
tics expert who identified the bullet re¬
moved from Maldochini’s head as one of
.22 caliber, and who assured the court
that, if fired from a distance of one hun¬
dred feet or thereabouts, it could easily
prove fatal, having struck a vital spot
in the right temple.
N OW, however, came Dr. Bankler, and
interest reawakened. The little gray
man, having been sworn in and having
replied to questions tending to identify
him as medical examiner and expert, was
brief, laconic, noncommittal.
“It has been shown,” said the Coroner,
“that the bullet taken from the deceased
could have caused the death of the late
Maldochini. That is the opinion of a
ballistics technician. In your own capac¬
ity, Dr. Bankler, do you confirm or deny
such an opinion?”
“I deny it,” said the Doctor, flatly.
“With what reason?”
“Three reasons: First, the bullet did
not penetrate the bone tissue. I myself
removed it, so I know. Second, even if
it had penetrated, death could not have
followed immediately. It might have
followed, after concussion and other
symptoms, but not in a matter of sec¬
onds. Third, I believe the man was al¬
ready dead, or at least the heart had
stopped functioning, before the bullet
entered.”
A tense silence fell on the court, fol¬
lowed by a buzzing of excitement.
“What could have precipitated such
an extraordinary situation as you sug¬
gest, Dr. Bankler?”
“Many things. Natural causes such as
heart-failure, for one. Poison, for an¬
other. Any number of diseases.”
“You have an opinion?”
“I have.”
“What is it?”
“The man was poisoned.”
The word procluced another murmur
which quickly subsided as the next ques¬
tion shot out.
“What sort of poison?”
“I don’t know.”
A tittering rippled over the room. The
Coroner was faintly ironical.
“Isn’t it paradoxical that you opine
that the man was poisoned, and yet you
admit you don’t know the poison?”
149
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Not at all. I know the class of poison,
but not the name of it. I am not an ex¬
pert toxicologist, merely a medical ex¬
aminer.”
“Then how did you arrive at this—ah
—extraordinary deduction?”
“Simply that my first examination sug¬
gested symptoms of poisoning—that is to
say, there was nerve-paralysis of an ab¬
normal nature. The bullet-wound did
not bleed normally. Muscular tension
was present before rigor mortis. I tested
for strychnine. It was negative. I made
other tests, also negative. When the au¬
topsy was made, I referred my suspicions
to Dr. Muth, who is a specialist. He con¬
firmed them.”
B ANKLER was excused, and the chem¬
ical analyst of the Coroner’s labora¬
tory was called, while the entire room sat
in electric tension. Muth proved to be a
tall, hirsute man with a vast domelike
head and a pronounced German accent.
Sworn in, he stared at the crowd through
thick lenses, and chewed his under lip.
“Dr. Bankler testifies that you made a
special examination of the deceased on
his recommendation, and that your find¬
ings confirm his suspicion of poisoning.
Is this true?”
“]a, yes,” growled the German.
“Are you prepared to name the poison
and to state how it may have been ad¬
ministered?”
“Ach, that is not so easy as that al¬
ready,” said Muth. “If I say it is an alka¬
loid, it has no meanings.”
“What is an alkaloid?”
“I cannot give a precise definition.
Nobody knows exactly. If I say words,
then you do not understand them.”
The Coroner was puzzled. So were all
in the courtroom.
“The court authorizes you to try, nev¬
ertheless.”
Dr. Muth made a wry smile, and said:
“In pharmacology the word alkaloid is
employed to designate nitrogenous basic
substances of a cyclic nature which is
found in plants. In toxicology it is re¬
stricted to substances possessing a physio¬
logical action.”
“Hm-m-m,” said the court, while a
snicker ran around the room, “I see.”
Dr. Muth’s smile suggested that he
knew the court did nothing of the kind.
But the Coroner extricated himself by
asking:
“When you examined the deceased,
just what did you find, Dor*'" -5 ”
Muth frowned heavily.
“In the stomach, we are finding noth¬
ing suspicious. From the blood we ob¬
tain somethings, but not much. In six
cubic centimeters I am finding one hun¬
dredth part of one milligram of alkyl
halide in combination with alkaloid
which is not to be identified for sure. So
I say, I know he is poisoned, but I do
not know which poison.”
This jargon of technical terminology
produced two things: laughter and con¬
fusion.
“Is there no other language in which
you can explain this to the jury?” asked
the Coroner when quiet was restored.
‘‘Ach, nein, it is science which has its
own language.”
“Then can you explain how you know
that you found a poison when you can¬
not tell what poison?”
“Because it is known that most alka¬
loids combined with alkyl halides to
form a quartemary ammonium deriva¬
tive, are having the effect like curare,
which is to paralyze the motor nerves.
That is the effect which the Doktor
Bankler is describing. I am finding some
alkaloid to the quarternary base, but
such quantities I am not able to make
sure which."
T HE Coroner jumped at the word
curare to pull himself out of an un¬
wieldy situation. He said:
“Curare? Isn’t that one of those leg¬
endary poisons which South American
savages are supposed to use on poison
arrows?”
“]a, yes.”
“But—” The Coroner smiled. “You
do not wish to imply that a public fig¬
ure like Maldochini would be poisoned
by a South American Indian?”
Dr. Muth scowled.
“I am not implying: I am telling you.
I do not say that it is curare. I am saying
that it could not be curare; because
curare, it cannot kill so quick. I am say¬
ing that it is like curare, which is an¬
other thing entirely.”
“There are several poisons like curare?”
“Some—yes, not several. I am saying
that most alkaloids to the quartemary
base, which is to say the ammonium—”
“I know, I know. The court has re¬
corded your statement. Dr. Muth. But
in simple language—”
“There is no simple language, I am
just saying. But I will say that if a man
is poisoned by such small quantity, then
it must be some most powerful poison-
like curare.”
150
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
The room snickered again at the man’s
show of arrogance and the Coroner’s dis¬
comfort. Mr. Dillion was seen to lean
over and whisper into the Coroner’s ear.
The Coroner then asked:
“Does such a violent poison exist, in
your opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Can you name one?”
"But sure. There is curarine, which
is obtain from curare by methylation,
and which is 266 times as strong as the
original. It would do.”
“Then why do you not state in the
first place—”
“Because I do not believe it is obtain¬
able.”
“Why not?”
“Where would it be obtain’ in these
United States? From a drug-store? Nein.
It is to be found not in the pharmaco¬
poeia. It is forbidden. It is not em¬
ployed in medicine. Possible only in
some special laboratory, maybe, but—”
“Curarine? It is not employed?”
#■ “Not since the laws of 1915, since it is
outlaw. One time in the patent medicine
they have use it for nerve tonic, but it
makes a scandal; it is no good. Curare,
curine, curarine —all the same, it is out¬
law. Where you can get it I do not
know. In Europe, maybe, but not here.”
“Then you can name no other poison
which is as powerful?”
“I cannot. It is true that science has
not yet recorded all alkaloids to the
quarternary base. It is possible some
new experiment—but ach, it is not likely,
no.” He sat back with a huge shrug.
The Coroner chewed a pencil, ill at
ease. Finally he said:
“This is a criminal investigation. Dr.
Muth. How is it possible to accuse per¬
sons as yet unnamed with the crime of
poisoning if we cannot name the poison
or describe it?”
“Ach, I do not know that. I know only
what I say. I am not accusing nobody;
I am telling you about experiments und
analysis. Beyond that I do not go.”
And he folded his hands with a show
of finality, until the Coroner dismissed
him; whereupon he returned to his seat,
as the newspaper men scurried to inter¬
view him. Presently the gavel fell sharp¬
ly, and the Coroner dismissed the session,
to be resumed the next day.
O VER the death of Giuseppe Maldo-
chini, the national press went wild,
so to speak, universally styling it the “Con¬
cert Murder Case,” and treating it like a
subject for a popular novel, as indeed it
was. In New York and Philadelphia
editors of the big dailies combined in
pointed, scathing and bitter criticism of
the neighboring city’s organization to
protect its citizens from crime.
J ohn Freeward was discouraged and
disheartened as he went up in the
elevator to his modest bachelor apart¬
ment that night. It had been a most try¬
ing day. He felt thwarted, shunted, fu¬
tile and frustrated in all his efforts. In
his own unspoken thought as he dragged
himself down the hall to his door:
“Well, nobody can say I didn’t try.
Maybe I did forget to bring it up in the
first place, but I did try to give it to
Quill when I remembered, and he
slapped me with that story about poor
Ambin; then when I go right back with
it, he refuses even to listen to met”
What he meant was, of course, that
same piece of broken needle—if needle it
was—and its appended bit of thread
which he still carried carefully wrapped
in his wallet. For this very morning,
after reporting for duty at the office,
John had slipped out and had gone
straight to Headquarters. Quill had re¬
ceived him grudgingly, and had barely
listened to his story.
“So what?” was his reply. “So you
found a chunk of needle and thread in
his sleeve, and your gal saw it too? Well,
I should’ve found it myself, but I didn’t.
And what does it mean? Only that the
old boy tried to sew on a button and
busted his needle. What you want to
make out of that, son?”
John opened his mouth to say, “But it
isn’t a needle, and there were two of
them—”
But at that instant, it seemed, the Com¬
missioner had just finished reading a
criticism, and telephoned to Quill with
sharp instructions to drop everything
and come to his office at once.
And so Quill heard nothing, cared
nothing, wanted nothing, and would
stand for nothing that a twenty-five-year-
old assistant in the District Attorney’s
office could tell him; and he went out
with a snort and a wheeze, leaving John
with his statement unfinished.
At the office, Mr. Dillion had re¬
marked John’s prolonged absence and
warned him that he would stand for no
such infraction of discipline. And John
had spent the day typing file-cards, in¬
stead of reporting further developments
of the Maldochini-Blanchamps-Ambin
151
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
case. It was a blow to his vanity, a shock
to his ego, and an effective shunt to his
ambition.
Now that the dismal day was over, he
went home straightway. He had tele¬
phoned to Cora Sue with the intention
of completing his apologies to her, but
instead of hearing the superciliously mu¬
sical voice of Schuldrein’s office operator
on the phone, a rough, harsh, masculine
voice had snarled:
“Yeah? This is Schuldrein’s all right;
what you want?”
He had asked for Miss Graybourne,
and the voice had grown actually surly:
“Who wants her?” it had snarled. “If
she was here, which she aint, she don’t
want to talk to nobody.”
And that was a strange kind of recep¬
tion to be had in the city’s leading musi¬
cal booking-office. Some squirt of an
office-boy, John decided. Or was Cora
Sue still clinging to unreasoning anger?
He turned the key in his door and
walked into his stuffy flat. The telephone
was ringing as he entered, and he has¬
tened across the room to answer it.
“I say, is that you, Freeward?” It was
a decidedly Britirfi voice. “Wengalle
here. I’m sitting with Miss Graybourne
in a place called Spinelli’s or—something
like that. It’s sort of a chemist’s shop.
She said you’d know it.”
“I know it; what’s on your mind?”
“Better dash over here, old man.
There seems to be some trouble. I just
stepped into it at Schuldrein’s and took
the fair lady away. We’ve been trying to
locate you for half an hour. Do hurry,
will you?”
T RAFFIC lights seemed conspiring to
delay John. But after hour-like min¬
utes, the cab reached the drug-store; Cora
Sue and Wengalle were there, at the girl’s
usual table. John strode toward them.
“Johnny!” He could not immediately
interpret the tone of her voice. It was not
precisely frightened, not tragic, yet obvi¬
ously strained and eager. Wengalle
stood up, saying:
“By Jove, I’m glad I got hold of you,
Freeward. Our little friend is devilishly
upset. Don’t blame her much, either.”
“But what has happened? What is it,
Cora Sue?”
“Oh, I’m so-so confused and—scared.
It’s Mr. Schuldrein. He—”
“Schuldrein? What about him?”
“He’s gone; he’s disappeared. He ran
away, and the police came, and—oh, it
was awful!”
John appealed to Wengalle.
“Would you mind?” he said. The
Englishman took up the theme:
“Mind you, I’m not much good at tell¬
ing it. Only a casual observer, what? But
the fact is just what Miss Graybourne
tried to say, Schuldrein’s skipped, and
the bobbies seem to be after him.”
“Bobbies—cops? What in the world?”
“Disconcerting business, I’d say. I just
dropped over to see the impresario about
a rumor of a new booking-office he’s sup¬
posed to be opening. Well, he wasn’t
there, but the police very much were.
Place was jammed with ’em. Made me
identify myself in a large way. I saw
Miss Graybourne having an argument
with a rather steamy fellow—detective,
I’d say. So I carried her off into purer
air, if you know what I mean. Beyond
that, it’s all a dashed mystery. Upset the
child no end, though, so I thought you’d
be the one to calm her down.”
Little by little the details came out.
I T seemed that Mr. Schuldrein had
merely stepped out of the office toward
three o’clock without mentioning his
destination to his secretary. Several ap¬
pointments for the aftenjoon were left
incomplete, and the lobby of the Schul¬
drein offices was overflowing with impa¬
tient, indignant members of the musical
world. Just before five o’clock, without
warning, a squad of policemen arrived,
demanded Schuldrein, and proceeded to
make a shambles of the office in a search
for something unnamed.
What upset Cora Sue especially was
that Lieutenant Quill was in charge of
the policemen; and seeing her, made it
his business to ply her with all manner
of questions concerning her employer in
a rough, insensitive manner, until Wen¬
galle had arrived, quite by coincidence,
and had spirited her out of the place.
“But I don’t see,” John reflected
aloud, “what the cops could want of
Jake Schuldrein.”
“Perhaps he is absconding with his
corporation funds,” Wengalle suggested,
and Cora Sue flew to her employer’s de¬
fense, ridiculing such a possibility, as
John joined her with:
“No, it couldn’t be that—not if Quill
was on the scene. He’s Homicide, you
know. Say, it can’t be they suspect Schul¬
drein in one of those murders now.”
Wengalle grinned in his beard.
“From the attitude of the press, I’d say
they might suspect anybody from the
Mayor to one of the seals in the aquar-
152
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
ium. Still, it does seem odd, eh? I say,
shall we have a bite of dinner some¬
where? Food might be the right ticket
for Miss Graybourne, you know.”
“Then let’s stay right here. They serve
sandwiches. Besides, it’s Cora Sue’s fa¬
vorite lunch-counter,” John urged.
C ORA SUE protested a complete lack
of appetite but was eventually pre¬
vailed upon to have a cup of coffee, and
John pushed the button which sum¬
moned a waiter to the booth.
The waiter was, as might be expected,
Ben Rasp, the oboist. He showed no
sign of embarrassment at seeing John
and Cora Sue, but brazenly said his
“Good evening, mees,” quite as though
he had not confessed that he had been
trading on the girl’s sympathies. John
resented this, and said, for her benefit:
“By the way, Cora Sue, your friend
Ben has gone up in the world. Apparent¬
ly Maldochini recognized him here one
day, and gave him a substitute’s job as
oboist in the orchestra—or perhaps you
saw something about it in the papers?”
“Why, Ben, how lovely! How lucky,
too! I’m so very glad!” she said sincere¬
ly, not perceiving the irony in John’s
manner. “So you’ve overcome your prej¬
udices against unions.”
The musical waiter shrugged.
"The master, he was so very kind,
mees; but the job, it is now finish—seence
the master have been killed, it is finish
now.”
“But why? The orchestra will play—
I know, because I’ve seen the bookings.”
“I do not know if we will play some
more now. We have not the instrument,
which the police they are keeping still.”
“Instruments? You mean they won’t
let you have them?”
“No, mees. That night, when the mas¬
ter is die, they are locking everything up.
Every day I am going to ask for my oboe,
but the cops, they are keeping. So I am
not practice any more.”
“That’s tough,” said-John. “I suppose
they sealed everything that was in the
place. They would. But don’t you or¬
chestra fellows have duplicates?”
He shrugged again.
“Ma but yes, sometimes. But not
me. I am paying in Italy five t’ousand
lire for one oboe, and t’ree t’ousand for
one more oboe. But they have lock both
of them. I am not so rich I can buy
more, no. . . . Tonight it is the chicken
r 'blets which is special. Maybe you like
bring?”
And when he had gone with his order,
Cora Sue exclaimed:
“I think that’s a mean shame to keep
the only tools of making a living away
from musicians, even if there was a mur¬
der. You can’t kill a man with an oboe,
you know.”
“Not unless you clout him across the
head,” admitted John. “As a weapon,
I’d take one of those helical basses.”
“That’s band, not orchestra, stupid.”
“Well, then, a trombone has a good
heft to it.”
Peter Wengalle, who had been silent,
broke in with a change of subject.
“I say,” he demanded, oddly, “who is
that chap? What’s this talk of the or¬
chestra?”
J OHN told him Rasp’s strange story,
not failing to take a gibe at Cora Sue’s
militant idealism and weakness for the
underdog.
“He’s a brazen one, too,” he added. “I
recognized him, of course, when I sat in
for the D.A. as the police questioned
everybody in the orchestra that night,
and he admitted Cora Sue had given him
ten bucks to buy music. He said he
hadn’t mentioned Maldochini’s giving
him a job, although he had been play¬
ing for a week, because she might not
make him another hand-out. Cora Sue’s
a real little friend of the downtrodden
—and they see her coming.”
Wengalle nodded.
“An expensive hobby, in my experi¬
ence. But what struck me was the man’s
face. I’d have sworn I recognized him
from somewhere. Queer, what?”
“I don’t think it’s queer,” said the girl.
“He did play with the National Sym¬
phony at Rome, and you must have seen
him in the orchestra dozens of times, Mr.
Wengalle.”
“Ah? So? Well, that would be it, of
course. Odd thing, one’s memory.; It
was his neck that reminded me.”
“That Adam’s apple! It’s his best fea¬
ture. I hear that playing the oboe raises
hob with the larynx or something,” said
John with some mirth. But the waiter,
subject of discussion, was returning to
the booth with his tray, so they changed
the conversation to things less personal.
153
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
As they ate, Cora Sue spoke up sud¬
denly in a hushed voice to John:
“Oh, Johnny, there’s something I
meant to—oh, well, another time will do,
but—”
"What is it, honey? I’m sure Mr. Wen-
galle won’t—”
“Don’t mind me, please,” said the Eng¬
lishman. “My musical ear is trained to
hear only that which is desirable. Be¬
sides, I’m enjoying your American ver¬
sion of a chemist’s shop. Nothing syn¬
thetic about these giblets, you know.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t really mean to—to
talk about that—that awful night again,
Johnny, but I just remembered some¬
thing I should have remembered when
that detective was shouting at me.”
“Not another clue?”
“No—it isn’t a clue. I mean, not real¬
ly, but I—”
“Come on, Cora Sue, let’s have it, any¬
how. Nothing you could say could add
anything more to the general confusion.”
“Well, it was when I went back—
there—and saw Miss Blanchamps going
into that box. There was a man in there.
He held the door open for her.”
“A man? Well, from what we know
of La Blanchamps, that isn’t surprising.
She seems to have known one or two.”
“I know, but—I didn’t mean only that.
You see, I saw him again—yesterday. I
wouldn’t have remembered the first time
if I hadn’t seen him again. He—he had
something the matter with an eye—it
looked like a scar across the ridge above
it. And yesterday I saw it plainly.”
“Where?”
“Right here, and at noon.”
“The devil you did!”
“But I did. He was sitting with an¬
other man. They were both foreigners.
Italians, I think. And once—oh, this is
just silly, of course, but once I thought
they were looking at me and talking
about me. But they—they went away.”
“Probably all a mistake, honey. But
even so, there’s nothing unusual about a
man looking at you—or talking about
you, for that matter. You aren’t too hard
to look at, you know. Besides, Latins
aren’t quite so reticent as Anglo-Saxons.”
“I know, I told you it was just silly.”
“Well, if they come again and bother
you, just talk to your friend Ben Rasp.
He’ll put them in their place. He owes
you that, at least—for ten dollars.”
W ENGALLE broke in:
“I say,” he said, “what about that
idea of mine I mentioned at the concert?
I’ve only three days more here, you know,
and I still want to hear a swing band in
one of your—ah—warm places.”
“Hot spots? It’s all right with me, but
if Cora Sue still feels upset—”
“Oh, I don’t. It just shocked me to
see Mr. Schuldrein in trouble. But I’d
love to show Mr. Wengalle something
like that. How about the Jupiter Club?
That’s Zuchine’s band—it’s about the
best, too.”
And presently they were on their way.
A S such evenings go, that was a good
l one. The Jupiter crowd was as ar¬
tificially joyous as ever, and the cocktails
no worse than usual in night-clubs. Yet
aside from the faintly vicarious amuse¬
ment of seeing England’s pithiest review¬
er chuckling like a boy playing hookey
as Zuchine’s band increased in temper¬
ature, grew “hot” and finally exploded
into a sort of rhythmic insanity, it was
much like any other evening in any other
night-club.
The hour was not yet late when Cora
Sue confessed to being frayed at the
nerves and, frankly, tired out. So the
party disbanded shortly after midnight:
and Wengalle, with a slight alcoholic exu-
berence, left them at the door, saying:
“Well, cheerio, my love-birds. I’ll
walk, thanks. Hotel’s only a step, any¬
how. And say, you’ll not betray me, will
you? If it ever leaked out that the usual¬
ly solemn ass Wengalle had unbent so
far as to applaud an American swing
band. I’d find myself taboo.”
In the cab, John ventured to say:
“I’m almost tempted to wish Schul¬
drein has really got away with the cor¬
poration bank-account and then gets
caught at it. In that case, you’d be fresh
out of careers, and maybe I could inter¬
est you in the advantages of home and
fireside.”
“Please, Johnny, don’t say anything
like that!” she almost wept in her pro¬
test. “I wouldn’t want anything to hap¬
pen to Mr. Schuldrein. He’s a dear, and
I just couldn’t bear it if—”
“If you had another clay-footed idol,
eh? Seems to me you loved Maldochini
too, and he—”
“Please, Johnny!” she implored him,
and he was contrite at once.
“Sorry. I was only taking a clubfooted
way of hinting that I’m still planning on
your being Mrs. District Attorney Free-
ward, one of these days.”
She pressed his hand. “I’d be right
proud to,” she said, and then, with ex-
154
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
citement: “But are they really making
you a—District Attorney?”
“Well, not exactly—yet,” he said rue¬
fully. “There’s one rather nastily buzz¬
ing fly in that ointment named Dillion.
He’s Latismer’s second man, and he
doesn’t seem to appreciate my talents
much.”
And he told her, in some part, at
least, of his differences with the Assistant
District Attorney, while she listened with
appropriate throat-noises and little ex¬
clamations of loving indignation against
Dillion’s hypercritical attitude, until
John confessed his increasing urge to
“do something about” the solution of
the as-yet-unsolved case. Cora Sue’s loy¬
alty pounced upon that.
“Why, of course you can, Johnny,”
she assured him. “You know ever so
much more about it than anybody else,
anyhow. And if that old Quill doesn’t
think your finding that funny needle-
thing isn’t important, it just shows how
—how stupid the police are, anyhow.
Besides, I’m sure it was Miss Blan-
champs who—”
“I wouldn’t be too sure, honey.
They’ve gone into that angle pretty well,
you know. And somebody did kill La
Blanchamps and her husband too, so
that just about lets them out.”
“Are they sure Mr. Ambin was mur¬
dered? I thought it was heart-failure.”
“They aren’t sure of anything, appar¬
ently; but as Quill said, there’s too much
heart-failure for one small group. I’m
going to work on that angle. There’s
some queer kind of connection, I know.”
T HE cab drew up to the curb in front
of Cora Sue’s brownstone house;
John stopped to pay the driver as the
girl scampered up the antiquated stoop
to avoid the chill. The street was dark
at that point; and a slight flurry of snow,
the first of the season, dimmed such
light as came from the arc on the corner.
J ohn turned from the cab and paused to
reathe a full breath of the crisp air. A
policeman on the beat was just disap¬
pearing around the Third Avenue cor¬
ner, his uniform snow-tipped. A big se¬
dan’s motor was purring in the murk
across the street. A radio from some up¬
stairs window was giving out commercial
cacophony. The spray of crisp, fine snow
made a crackling sound on John’s hat
as he followed Cora Sue to the door, and
their cab growled away.
The girl had not waited outside, for
the wind was nippy; and not seeing her.
John concluded wisely that she had
sought the refuge of the vestibule with¬
in. However he remarked that it was
odd that the stoop light should be out.
Trouble with these second-rate apart¬
ment houses—they’re cheap, but you only
get the service you pay for.
Stepping through the door, he heard a
half-strangled voice which he knew must
be Cora Sue’s, saying:
“Oh! Oh, don’t .... Johnny!”
Then dark forms materialized, and
something exploded against the back of
his head.
F OR the majority of persons who have
not felt a blow of sandbag or black¬
jack against their medulla oblongata,
John’s sudden plunge into semi-conscious¬
ness may have but slight meaning. But
for any man who has felt such a blow,
the struggle of flesh, will and spirit to
withstand the shock and to fight a way
out of mental obscurity into active being
is a positive, vital and terrible thing that
defies mere word-expression.
Let those who will, sneer at college ath¬
letics; it was those young years of train¬
ing-tables, a gridiron and twenty-six
fights for the intercollegiate middle¬
weight championship that stood him
stead in that black moment. Cora Sue’s
frightened cry was imprinted in his sub¬
conscious; and the do-or-die will to act,
born of the amateur ring and football’s
hardened muscles, grasped at every fiber
in him. He saw himself in slow motion.
He was plunged in a dark watery abyss
and swimming frantically upward. The
effort to move a finger was like a struggle
against a thousand-pound weight.
On his knees, with strong hands grip-
i ting his body, a weight of darkness like a
eaden overcoat crushing him down, he
surged with his full weight and strength.
His reaching hands made contact with
an animate body, and clutched at it in
a terrible fury. Hands, hands, hands
were tearing at him, choking him, pull¬
ing at him, dragging him. He was being
lifted against his will, as though gravity
had ceased to be. Sibilant voices in some
distorted language clicked and hissed.
Will won. Something struggled in his
hands; a white-hot sear slashed his shoul¬
der. He flung his big body erect, and
heard his own voice emit a savage roar
as the struggling thing yielded to his own
power and came uprooted in his hands.
Another searing pain cut him in the ribs,
and he knew blood was flowing. He
flung that thing in his hands, to the hard
155
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
marble floor, heard the thud of it, and
the sensation cleared his head.
Fightingl Only a pale glow from the
distant street arc revealed shadowy
forms. Something hit him violently on
the right shoulder where the burning
hurt was, and he felt his whole side
breaking, going limp. But with his left
hand, he struck and felt a crunching as
his fist reached flesh. His shoulders
struck a mass, and the mass crumbled.
Blows rained upon him, but they spat¬
tered like water on oil.
Now he saw more clearly. There were
only three of them. One of them was al¬
ready under his feet.
“Madre mio!” a throttled throat
gasped as his hands closed on it. His
arms lifted a body clean from the ground
and hurled it crashing through invisible
glass. A scream followed—a man’s
scream. That stabbing pain across his
chest was the point of a knife, but his
hands caught the thrusting arm and he
felt it snap in his powerful twist as a
hoarse yell burst out. For an instant he
was untouched, felt nothing near—and
in that bare instant he flung himself
forward into the door, tripped, felt glass
cut his leg, sprawled headlong, felt the
shock of a body falling across him,
heaved his own body upright and sent
the other flying. Then like a man in a
nightmare, he was flying toward the in¬
ner stairs as they were fumbling for him
in the dark.
A blow from behind sent him stagger¬
ing but located the stairs for him because
he crashed into the banister. He charged
up, and the hands were slipping from
him in the darkness. He sensed a man
right on top of him and hit out. A for¬
eign voice gave a cry of rage and pain.
Someone piled on him from higher up,
and he fell, his head striking something
sharp and hard, and consciousness went
out of him again like a window closing
in the soul.
H OW long he lay there, there was no
knowing. He flicked his eyes open,
with pain burning every corner of him,
to see a man in pajamas and another in
overalls, leaning over him. The lights
had somehow gone on. He was on the
lower flight of stairs in Cora Sue’s apart¬
ment house.
“Why—why, it’s Mr. Freeward. That’s
Miss Grayboume’s feller. Say, what hap¬
pened? Didja fall downstairs, or—”
Besides the pain and the vivid anger
in him, the only emotion he had was a
terrible fear for Cora Sue. He pulled
himself up quickly, silently, ignoring the
good offices of the two men, and dashed
upstairs, leaving them to gasp in aston¬
ishment.
Cora Sue’s door was locked. He rang.
Phyllis, in a nightdress opened the door.
“Why, John, isn’t it a little—’’
“Shut upl Where’s Cora Sue?”
“You should know better than I.
Good God, you’re all bloody—or is this
a gag? Would you be drunk, or on a
charades party? Don’t tell me; let me
guess what you’re supposed to—”
She stopped short and cried:
“Wait—John! Please, John, don’t be
like that, I was only—”
But John was being “like that.” He
turned away from her with a lurch and
made three unsteady steps toward the
stairs, then began going down, a little
faster than need be, as though his feet
might crumble if they could not keep
up to his will.
CHAPTER VI
T HE house in which Mr. John Latis-
mer had been spending his now
much-publicized vacation near Sarasota
was much less the usual type of thing
chosen by visiting Northerners from pho¬
tos shown them by practical rental-office
agents, than it was typical of the man
himself. It was, purely and simply, a
farmhouse, nothing more. It had charm
but not grandeur; yet it had a certain
assertive air to it, quiet but positive,
which might remind a careful observer
of the District Attorney’s own unobtru¬
sive power.
Since early morning the newspaper
men had been arriving. No fewer than
twelve of them, representing the big-city
dailies and the two major news-services,
had fairly taken possession of the front
lawn. It had been no good trying to
“crash the gate.” The gates of John Lat-
ismer were notoriously “uncrashable,”
aqd the burly man in livery who looked
more like a wrestler than a butler had
been able to say, “Nobody sees him until
he says the word," and make it stick.
Florida nights are often chillier than
is generally supposed; and as evening
fell, the lawn’s temporary tenants grew
both cold and restless. One of them
growled:
“I wonder does Latismer think this is
any way to get the newspapers behind
him next election? Believe me, gents, I'm
156
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
going to hand that guy a panning when
I get back. He isn’t in such a good spot,
anyhow. This is a dumb trick, keeping
the boys hanging around all day.”
Another replied:
“Latismer never pulls a dumb trick,
feller. He pulls rabbits out of hats. No¬
tice he didn’t refuse to see us.”
“Nuts, my friend!” chimed a third re¬
porter. “He’s freezing us out. Boy, I
could use an overcoat in this sunny
clime. And a good stiff drink,”
But as if to give the lie to doubters,
the door to the Latismer place opened,
and the muscular butler called out:
“Okay, you boys. Come and get it."
It was due to the minor commotion
that followed this announcement that
the reporters failed to perceive the drive-
yourself car which had crept cautiously
from a side-road into Latismer’s winding
driveway and had stopped beyond the
privet hedge to allow an out-of-breath
gentleman of considerable corpulence to
get down and conceal himself behind a
latticed “summer-house.” The prowler
had a good face, under his soft black
velour hat, and his clothes, although a
little rumpled showed good tailoring.
Certainly he was no tramp nor beggar.
Yet his behavior was certainly that of a
man who did not desire to be seen.
He watched the newspaper men as
they were admitted, peering through the
twilight. Then he glanced at an expen¬
sive watch, and blinked his eyes as he
lifted his shoulders in a gesture more
European than American. And when the
door closed on the reporters, he lighted
a cigar and relaxed in his uncomfortable
seat, a man resolved to wait.
"I HAVE no good reason to give any of
1 you a statement," Latismer was saying
to the newspaper men gathered in his
study, “in view of the attitude your pa¬
pers have taken toward me. And yet it
will serve my purpose to make one. It
will be short as possible. I shall expect
it to be quoted verbatim, warning you
that the slightest change will be the im¬
mediate instrument of legal action
against the paper which risks such a
change. Is that perfectly clear?”
One of the reporters said:
“That’s okay, Mr. Latismer—only,
don’t hold those editorials against us.
We’re just hired help trying to get a
story. We’ll stick to what you tell us to
say. How about it, men?”
There was a chorus of agreement. Lat¬
ismer’s stiff attitude softened. He began:
“Thank you. My first statement is
this: I shall fly to New York by chartered
plane at midnight—”
“What plane, sir? What field?”
“A private plane and a private field.
I don’t care to be accompanied by the
press, thank you.” The D.A.’s smile was
like the glint of a knife-blade.
“My next statement,” he went on, “is
that instead of persisting in taking a va¬
cation to the detriment of my official
duties,—as your papers have so delicately
implied,—I have, on the contrary, re¬
mained down here with the purpose of
keeping the clearer perspective given by
distance from the confusion and muddle
which seems to have taken possession of
all concerned in these cases back home
—including, may I add, the master-minds
of the press.”
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed one of the re¬
porters. “That hurt.”
JATISMER made no comment but went
“And from this vantage point I have
worked out a theory which may lead to
the prompt solution of all three crimes,
more especially the murder of Giuseppe
Maldochini.”
One reporter growled: “You wouldn’t
be kidding the boys, would you, D.A.?”
Latismer gave him a sharp look.
“No,” he said, “I wouldn’t. I believe
that the police and all concerned have
been too close to the physical features
of these crimes to obtain a clear sight of
the psychological features. For instance
—and you may print this if you will: no
one seems to have observed that, al¬
though Maldochini is an Italian, there
has been no effort on the part of either
the Italian consulate or legation to put
pressure on when he is killed. I have
been in touch with the State Department
in Washington—”
“Hey, that’s dead right. Not only is he
an Italian, but a famous one. And the
consulate hasn’t—”
This was one of the newspaper men,
struck by the fact just pointed out.
Latismer smiled.
“You’ll admit it is odd. One can hard¬
ly imagine an American musician of con¬
sequence being murdered abroad without
our embassy’s making serious diplomatic
representations—”
“But Mr. Latismer—”
“One moment, please. Another point
is that no one seems to have taken the
trouble to discover Maldochini’s pass¬
port. Obviously he must have one. It
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
may interest you to learn that he came in
on a League of Nations passport, not
an Italian one.”
“Hey, hey! What’s that mean?”
“It means he was not an Italian sub¬
ject at all,” said Latismer. “I have ad¬
vice by cable from reliable sources to the
effect that Maldochini was disgraced by
his government, deprived of citizenship
and virtually exiled last September. He
did not sail to this country from Italy,
but from Palma in Majorca, via Ville-
franche. He had been living in Palma
since his estate in Girgente was confis¬
cated in September. This fact has never
been released to the press; you are aware
of the kind of censorship that is in effect
under the Fascist government.”
“Then what do you think—”
Latismer shrugged; it appeared that he
did not intend at this time to make
known his speculations, if any. He said:
“I think it may have bearing upon his
death. If you care to print my statement,
—and I am sure that you will,—it may
further my theories. That is all, gentle¬
men. I bid you good evening. It is al¬
ready past nine o’clock. There is a train
at ten from Sarasota. And a plane at ten-
fifteen, I believe.”
And with that abrupt dismissal, he
bowed them out of the room.
As they departed in a body from the
house, one of them could not refrain
from a remark of the I-told-you-so order.
“Rabbits,” he said, “out of his hatl
That’s Latismer for you. I got a date
with the nearest telephone.”
T HE District Attorney resumed his seat
in his study, opening the windows to
permit the smoke of the visiting news¬
paper men to escape. His work com¬
prised three columns of tabulations on a
sheet of scratch-paper. He studied them;
he frowned at them; he consulted his
watch. He saw no corporeal body from
which the voice might have come, but he
heard the voice, distinctly:
“Latismer? Psst! Latismer!”
In the window facing the lawn he saw
a shadow. His hand was rapid in pro¬
ducing from a clip under his desk a small
but serviceable automatic.
“Don’t move!” he said. “I can drive
a nail at this distance with a thirty-
eight.” Except that his voice had an
edge to it, it showed no emotion.
“Oi, oil” said this intruding shadow.
“Now, don’t drive me no nails, Latismer,
I aint a burglar; it’s me, Schuldrein.”
“Who? Step into the light.”
“Schuldrein, the music promoter, it’s
me. Take that thing away. I come all
the way down here to tell you things, and
you would drive nails in me! Oi, oi!”
The shaft of light from Latismer’s
desk-lamp revealed a plump, soft, rather
genteel face framed in the window. Be¬
low it was a bulky body. The District
Attorney, a frequenter of musical events,
knew that face.
“Come in, Schuldrein,” he said. “Keep
your hands visible. Open the window—
it works like a door. And why not come
to the front door, while you’re about it?”
J ake Schuldrein, a man whose name
spelled all that is notable in the world
of professional musicians, stepped
through the French window, holding his
hands like two teacups so full they trem¬
bled. He was both ludicrous and pitiful.
His plump face had fallen until it re¬
sembled a bird-dog’s mournful counte¬
nance.
“Please, I esk you, will you put that
thing away?” he said. “Oi, oi, what a
business for Jake Schuldrein, coming in
windows now, is it?”
Latismer could not repress a brief
twitching of the lips as he returned the
gun to its clip under the desk.
“I said, why the devil didn’t you come
to the door?” he urged again. "And since
you are down here in Florida, we— But
sit down, Schuldrein, and relax. What’s
on your mind?”
“To the door I should be coming, is
it?” panted the impresario. “And the
cops maybe here already, how should I
know?”
“The cops?”
“A ch, Himmel! Why else would I be
coming here like a sneak-thief, aint it?”
“What the devil would the police—”
The D.A.’s mild amazement increased.
“Are you coming here to hand yourself
over to me for some reason?”
“Am I crazy? When I aint done noth¬
ing yet?”
“Then suppose you start from the be¬
ginning and let me in on this business.”
Schuldrein sank into a chair.
“It’s this Jo Maldochini, which the
cops think I shoot him.”
“Maldochini? And did you?”
158
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
. Schuldrein’* eyebrows lifted to the
back of his totally bald dome.
j‘Am 1 such a fool? It aint like I
wouldn’t be glad if somebody done it for
me, such a gyp he was that Maldochini,
byt I didn’t do it.”
Latismer’s attention was close now.
“I gather that a great many persons
weren’t exactly displeased at his death
—but I wasn’t aware that you were un¬
der suspicion.”
“Listen, if hate was bullets, then Jo
Maldpchini’s corpse would weigh a ton
right now, for the lead that’s in him.
But it's this here Quill—”
Latismer nodded understandingly,
“Quill, eh? He’s a good bloodhound,
Quill is. I imagine the newspapers made
him uncomfortable, and he went hunt¬
ing for a victim. Tell me about it!”
Schuldrein used vast gestures as he
spoke. He said that some of the orches¬
tra musicians had told Quill of a violent
discussion between him, Schuldrein, and
the late maestro, and that the detective,
grabbing at another possible motive and
clue, had given the impresario a sum¬
mons to appear for questioning. For
reasons of his own he had not appeared,
however, and Quill had come to arrest
him in his office. Fortunately, Schul¬
drein had been able to avoid them by
vanishing down the seldom used stair¬
way of his office building, while they
ransacked his offices. He had gone
straight to the airport and taken a plane
to Florida, meaning to do just what he
was now doing—lay the whole story in
the lap of the District Attorney.
Latismer was plainly puzzled-
“What I don’t quite get is why you
refused to answer Quill’s summons,” he
said. “That makes you liable to arrest,
and it certainly does nothing to allay
any suspicions he might have. Besides,
if you know yourself to be innocent, why
in heaven’s name didn’t you appear?”
F ROM the expression on Schuldrein’s
face, it was evident that right here
was the crux of the matter.
“Aint I got to think of my position,
now?” he demanded. “If I go down and
let them coppers work on me, then it all
comes out.”
“What comes out?”
The impresario looked both crest¬
fallen and embarrassed. He hesitated,
evidently not quite certain that he want¬
ed to do the very thing he had taken such
extreme measures to do. Presently he
appeared to have come to a decision, and
began talking, head down, his eyes fixed
upon his chubby hands.
“Well, I got to tell you. It comes out
anyhow sometime if I don’t. Well—I
got a record, Mr. Latismer—a prison rec¬
ord. Only six months, maybe, but that’s
enough, aint it?”
f ATISMER stared at the man in frank
Li amazement.
“That is a rather startling confession
for a man of your position,” he said
finally.
“That is thirty years ago now,” Schul¬
drein went on. “Thirty years, it is, when
I was young and dumb, fresh from the
other side and living in Boston.”
“Boston?”
“But the name aint Schuldrein; it’s
Kleinfeldt on the books, which you can
check it. A little business I had with a
feller named Spear. Kleinfeldt & Spear,
we was, booking carnivals and small-time
stuff, and maybe a couple hick orches¬
tras. One day I get a chance to pro¬
mote a big show if I have the money,
which I didn’t. So I borrow some of the
company money without I tell Spear
about it. Oi, oi, such mess I am in it!
The show is a flop, and poor Larry Spear
he gets sick and dies, and the banks get
a hold of the books. And then this wop
Maldochini—”
“Maldochini?”
“Sure, he was a fiddler in a ham or¬
chestra which we was booking, only he is
plain Jo Rosso then.”
“I am amazed. I was under the im¬
pression that Giuseppe Maldochini had
never been in America until he came—"
“Don’t I know? Didn’t I practical
write all them stories in the newspapers?
I got a smart little gal which writes what
I tell her and don’t esk no questions;
but you should believe all you read in
the musics business, Mr. Latismer, on
account all them fellers have names
Sacha and Jascha is likely just Mike
O’Brien or Abe Schmidt. But Jo Maldo¬
chini he was there, and glad if he got
twenty bucks a week with transportation,
and a lousy fiddler at that. He goes back
to Italy and writes a symphony, so he
says, which wins him a prize and gets
him a big rep, but for my money he is
still lousy.”
“I think I begin to perceive—”
“You don’t perceive nothing yet, Mr.
Latismer. When them musicians tell it I
had a row with Maldochini, it’s true.
Ever since he gets to be a big-shot con¬
ductor, I am always trying to sign him
159
MURDER IN E FLAT MAJOR
plan behind it. And then the operator
called him to announce that Mr. Latis-
mer was no longer at his address, sorry.
“But I can’t just sit here and drip
while Cora Sue is being—”
He had an impulse to go to the police
and report being assaulted, but he dis¬
missed that as futile.
“They’d only waste time checking up
on me. They’d probably figure I was
drunk, anyhow—with a pan like mine.
Besides, the only cop who could see the
connection with the Maldochini thing is
S uill, and God knows how to get hold
him at this time in the morning.”
There, of course, was the striking fea¬
ture of it all.
“It’s got to be that Maldochini busi¬
ness. Nobody would try to snatch Cora
Sue unless they had a reason, and the
only reason would be that they’re afraid
of her. And the only thing they’d be
afraid of would be that she knows some¬
thing and might tell it.”
They, they, they, they, they! Who in
thunder were “They?”
He finished his bath and patching
himself over, and sat in his dressing-
gown smoking endless cigarettes, making
idle marks on scraps of paper in an en¬
deavor to make some sense out of what
had happened, but no clear sense seemed
forthcoming.
“Organization!” That word seemed
to be material. “It has all the earmarks
of some organized bunch trying to cover
up tracks of their murder of the maestro.
If Cora Sue saw the scar-faced man in
that box, then he might think—”
A bell rang like an explosion, and
John looked at his alarm-clock to see the
hands pointing toward six.
"And here I sit in a muddle like a
stupid fool, getting nothing done. I’m
going down to headquarters and tell
Quill. He’ll be-”
ANOTHER bell exploded, the tele-
/-\ phone this time.
“That you, Freeward?” came a vaguely
familiar voice. “This is Latismer. Now
you listen and let me talk. I’m at a small
flying-field near Chanford. Just got in.
I want you to meet me and do something
for me. I think I’ve got this murder in
hand and I don’t want to risk any inter¬
ference from the papers. You take a taxi¬
cab right in front of your place and drive
out on Route 3. There is only one road,
and you’ll pass a flying-field. That’s it.”
“Yes sir, and believe me I’m glad
you—”
“Never mind that, now; listen to me:
You pack a bag. I may want you to take
a trip for me. I’ll expect you here by
eight o’clock. Get going, John, and keep
out of sight.”
The line clicked and went dead.
CHAPTER VII
F OR those few minutes between the
instant dark forms had emerged up¬
on her from the darkness of her hall and
the later instant when she felt motion
under and around her, Cora Sue had ex¬
perienced a form of suspended anima¬
tion. Not unconsciousness, in the real
sense of the word, nor yet hysteria. She
knew in a shadowy way, for instance,
that she had cried out to John, and that
she had struggled against the hands that
were holding her, and that she actually
bit one of them. She knew that a cloth
or bag had been dropped over her head
and held there, and that the hands had
lifted her up and carried her. But she
had no real perception of actuality nor
of reality. She sensed herself, rather than
saw, in the third person, objectively.
And then, discovering herself, so to
speak, wedged into a comparatively soft
cushioned seat, tied there with a rope
around her body, but with the feeling
of swift motion and the purr of a motor
under her, brought her sharply back in¬
to this world again with a savage, cruel
snap of reality.
She screamed.
A strong hand felt for her face through
the cloth that covered it, and thrust her
head back violently. A voice said:
“Basta! Shut upl”
And that effectively put a stop to all
action. Futility overwhelmed her.
Kidnaping? But kidnaping implies
ransom money, and ransom implies
riches. Who would ransom a Cora Sue
Graybourne? Her father dead, her broth¬
er a cripple since the war, her mother
struggling to maintain a kind of passive
respectability in what remained of an
ancient plantation, now nearly dissolved
by debt and mortgage. No, kidnaping
was absurd.
That kind of thinking died a natural
death as the car began to slow down and
foreign-sounding voices came through
the thick cloth. Presently it stopped, and
she heard a door open and hands took
hold of her. The voices were louder now,
speaking in Italian. It was Italian,
surely.
161
MURDER IN E FLAT MAJOR
plan behind it. And then the operator
called him to announce that Mr. Latis-
mer was no longer at his address, sorry.
“But I can’t just sit here and drip
while Cora Sue is being—”
He had an impulse to go to the police
and report being assaulted, but he dis¬
missed that as futile.
“They’d only waste time checking up
on me. They’d probably figure I was
drunk, anyhow—with a pan like mine.
Besides, the only cop who could see the
connection with the Maldochini thing is
S uill, and God knows how to get hold
him at this time in the morning.”
There, of course, was the striking fea¬
ture of it all.
“It’s got to be that Maldochini busi¬
ness. Nobody would try to snatch Cora
Sue unless they had a reason, and the
only reason would be that they’re afraid
of her. And the only thing they’d be
afraid of would be that she knows some¬
thing and might tell it.”
They, they, they, they, they! Who in
thunder were “They?”
He finished his bath and patching
himself over, and sat in his dressing-
gown smoking endless cigarettes, making
idle marks on scraps of paper in an en¬
deavor to make some sense out of what
had happened, but no clear sense seemed
forthcoming.
“Organization!” That word seemed
to be material. “It has all the earmarks
of some organized bunch trying to cover
up tracks of their murder of the maestro.
If Cora Sue saw the scar-faced man in
that box, then he might think—”
A bell rang like an explosion, and
John looked at his alarm-clock to see the
hands pointing toward six.
“And here I sit in a muddle like a
stupid fool, getting nothing done. I’m
going down to headquarters and tell
Quill. He’ll be-”
ANOTHER bell exploded, the tele-
/~\ phone this time.
“That you, Freeward?” came a vaguely
familiar voice. “This is Latismer. Now
you listen and let me talk. I’m at a small
flying-field near Chanford. Just got in.
I want you to meet me and do something
for me. I think I’ve got this murder in
hand and I don’t want to risk any inter¬
ference from the papers. You take a taxi¬
cab right in front of your place and drive
out on Route 3. There is only one road,
and you’ll pass a flying-field. That’s it.”
“Yes sir, and believe me I’m glad
you—”
“Never mind that, now; listen to me:
You pack a bag. I may want you to take
a trip for me. I’ll expect you here by
eight o’clock. Get going, John, and keep
out of sight.”
The line clicked and went dead.
CHAPTER VII
F OR those few minutes between the
instant dark forms had emerged up¬
on her from the darkness of her hall and
the later instant when she felt motion
under and around her, Cora Sue had ex¬
perienced a form of suspended anima¬
tion. Not unconsciousness, in the real
sense of the word, nor yet hysteria. She
knew in a shadowy way, for instance,
that she had cried out to John, and that
she had struggled against the hands that
were holding her, and that she actually
bit one of them. She knew that a cloth
or bag had been dropped over her head
and held there, and that the hands had
lifted her up and carried her. But she
had no real perception of actuality nor
of reality. She sensed herself, rather than
saw, in the third person, objectively.
And then, discovering herself, so to
speak, wedged into a comparatively soft
cushioned seat, tied there with a rope
around her body, but with the feeling
of swift motion and the purr of a motor
under her, brought her sharply back in¬
to this world again with a savage, cruel
snap of reality.
She screamed.
A strong hand felt for her face through
the cloth that covered it, and thrust her
head back violently. A voice said:
“Basta! Shut upl”
And that effectively put a stop to all
action. Futility overwhelmed her.
Kidnaping? But kidnaping implies
ransom money, and ransom implies
riches. Who would ransom a Cora Sue
Graybourne? Her father dead, her broth¬
er a cripple since the war, her mother
struggling to maintain a kind of passive
respectability in what remained of an
ancient plantation, now nearly dissolved
by debt and mortgage. No, kidnaping
was absurd.
That kind of thinking died a natural
death as the car began to slow down and
foreign-sounding voices came through
the thick cloth. Presently it stopped, and
she heard a door open and hands took
hold of her. The voices were louder now,
speaking in Italian. It was Italian,
surely.
161
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
She was being carried again. The sud¬
den cold passed, and a door slammed
behind somewhere and she felt herself
being lifted up some stairs. Terror came
back to her again. For an instant it had
left her, but now she wanted to scream
again, wanted to cry out, wanted to
shriek for succor.
But a sharp, positive voice spoke a
few rattling words in Italian, and the
hands lowered her toward the floor so
that she could set her feet on something
soft yet solid. A carpet, perhaps. Then
another sharp command, and the ropes
which held her arms at her sides were
released as the cloth was lifted from her
head.
“This is most unfortunate, signorina,"
said that same hard voice in English
which bore a foreign tinge. “But do not
be alarmed. No harm is intended. Please
to sit down. It will not be good if you
make noise.”
It was a very tiny room she was in.
The light was bad, and her startled eyes
could barely focus upon the doorway, in
which stood an overcoated figure, upright,
with a black hat pulled down over the
upturned collar to conceal any face
which might have been in the coat. She
sensed other men in the room behind
her, but she was too frightened to look
around. Had she been the fainting kind,
she might well have swooned. Instead
she was able to steady herself and to
make her voice say:
“What does this mean? Where am I?
What right have you to—Why did you
bring me here?”
The overcoated form folded its arms
and appeared to be contemplating her
from under the hat.
“All that is not too easy to make an¬
swer, signorina,” said the voice. “But let
us say you are in a place where it does
not matter if you scream. A factory
building, signorina, and the watchman
who sleeps sometimes in this room, he is
—not here. In the morning they will
come and find you, signorina, but you
will be here until it is eight o’clock. Do
not be afraid; you will be alone.”
C ORA SUE could not sit down as
urged. She stammered:
“Do you—want money? I haven’t any
money, except twenty dollars or—”
“But we do not wish your money, sig¬
norina,” the voice broke in. “We desire
only that you remain here until after
six hours of the morning. In my coun¬
try, signorina, it would be easier—for us.
A bullet, perhaps, or a knife. But in
this America we do not desire an inter¬
national incident, no. It is better that
you are here where you may not talk.”
“But I—what right have you to—”
“The right of self-defense, signorina.
It is regrettable, but it is desirable that
you remain here until I shall have de¬
parted from this country. You do not
understand? Bene. So much for the bet¬
ter.”
He made a rapid remark in Italian
and vanished into the darkness outside
the door, as two men stepped from be¬
hind her and joined him. His voice
came from the hall or room behind the
door, saying:
“It will be warm here, signorina, and
there is a cot upon which to sleep. Do
not try to escape through the window,
which is seventy feet above the ground.
It is useless to call out, for the windows
are upon a court, and the street is where
your voice cannot be heard. See? We do
not fasten you. You are free to walk
about on this floor as you wish. But the
doors are locked until morning, when
the factory shall open. Addio, signorina.
Be advised to remain calm.”
And she could hear their footsteps re¬
treating while within her heart was a
terrified pulsation.
A FIVE-DOLLAR bill will charter a
taxicab for a considerable distance,
as John soon discovered. It requires a
little discussion, perhaps; but at that
hour of the morning most taxi-drivers are
happy to make a flat rate and get started
for their day.
The road was simple and fast as far as
Chanford, but that small town—larger,
John discovered, than is generally sus¬
pected—is a maze of streets, crossroads
and inept road-signs, so that twenty min¬
utes or more was lost in discovering the
road to the airport. But after three false
starts, and with the aid of a colored po¬
liceman who proved far more intelligent
than his paler colleagues had been, they
got under way, while John fumbled nerv¬
ously with his watch, staring at the
speeding minute-hand as the machine’s
fifty miles hourly seemed a snail’s pace.
It was then eight o’clock, and it was
fifteen minutes later when the terrain
flattened out and a row of small hangars
in the distance suggested that they must
be approaching the flying-field of which
Latismer had spoken.
There could be no mistake about the
field as soon as the cab drew alongside
162
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
the white fence that separated it from
the road. A shiny cabin plane, not large
as an air-liner but definitely bigger than
the open-cockpit jobs that stood around
the field, glistened in the early morning
twilight. The tall, statuesque figure of
the District Attorney in a black over¬
coat with fur collar stood at the entrance
to the field, while a corpulent individual
somewhat more spectacularly dressed but
unknown to John stood with him, puff¬
ing a cigar.
T HERE was no time for greeting.
Latismer stepped toward the cab as
John descended, saying:
“Good for you, John! But don’t get
out; we’ll need that cab. I’m putting you
on a plane for Washington as soon as we
can. By the way, do you know Mr.
Schuldrein? Come along, Schuldrein and
get in. This is the young man I told
you of.”
“Ach, Miss Grayboume’s feller! How
do? Sometimes I seen you at my office,
aint it?”
John could hardly take the impre¬
sario’s hand before he burst out with the
tragic news of Cora Sue’s disappearance.
Both men listened in astonishment as
he crowded detail upon detail in his ex¬
cited recitation, and the taxicab sped
along toward the public airport. When
he paused for breath, Latismer said:
“Great Scott, that’s bad news, John!
But I think it proves my—ah—our theory,
eh, Schuldrein?”
But the rotund impresario was bab¬
bling mingled praises for “Miss Gray-
boume” his “hend-raised press gel,” and
consternation at the news of her incred¬
ible adventure and' abduction.
“Oi, oi, with them wops you never
know what comes any minute, a knife in
the belly maybe, or a bomb in the beth-
room. Oi, the poor gel! And me with
the cops thinking I am moidering Jo
Maldochini so I can’t—”
“I doubt if any real harm has come to
her,” said Latismer. “If they meant to
kill her, they would not have taken the
trouble to carry her away. You’re quite
sure about that car being outside, John?
And that they were Italians?”
“Oh, yes sir, there’s no mistake about
that. What I don’t see is why anybody
should—”
“It all seems to fit into a theory I
have. In fact, I might have suspected
it—had I known all the details in ad¬
vance. But if your trip to Washington
is successful, I fancy we will have no
trouble in unearthing the right party,
and getting your—ah—fiancee back again,
safe and sound.”
“You mean—you think you know
who—” John was mildly amazed, al¬
though he was aware of the reputation
of Mr. Latismer for performing almost
miraculous sleight-of-hand effects in the
obtaining of convictions.
"Call it a theory—so far. The thing
that has struck me is that the Italian em¬
bassy and consulate has made no effort
to hasten prosecution of the murderer of
a man like Maldochini. Now your trip
to Washington is for one purpose only—
namely, to discover what the Embassy
thinks about the deceased maestro.
Schuldrein says the man was not exactly
favored by the Fascist government last
summer, and I have evidence to the ef¬
fect that he had been deprived of citizen¬
ship. I suspect that there may be a semi¬
political side to all this. Remember the
Black Hand organization? And the
Maffia? To the newspaper men, they
seemed to be just a bunch of mur¬
derers. But in reality, they resembled
the Chinese tongs, having their back¬
ground in Italian politics. Were he
a Russian or a German, I would look
into the Ogpu or the Gestapo activi¬
ties as a possible explanation of his—ah
—elimination. Being Italian, however,
I suspect some unofficial but political
organization which may—’’
OHN broke in:
“But if Dr. Bankler’s theory—about
poisoning, I mean—is correct, and the
toxicologist seemed to prove that it is,
then even so you would have to show
how he was killed. That bullet—”
“Hm-m-m. I confess I am disregarding
that question. A man lies dead with a
bullet in his head. Somebody must have
fired that bullet. It seems pretty satisfac¬
tory, all in all, that the bullet could
have killed him. I’m not going to split
scientific hairs. I want the man—or men
—responsible for that bullet. Assuming
that my theory is right, and that it was a
political bullet, then the Blanchamps
murder—by a knife-thrust—could be ex¬
plained away quite simply.”
“I don’t quite see how, sir.”
163
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“You yourself said she was seen to en¬
ter that box—the only place likely where
the assassin would have been hiding.”
“Then you mean she was killed to—”
“Exactly. To silence her. Yvonne
Blanchamps had a keen nose for money.
I have done some quick work by cable
and I have learned that she was the ben¬
eficiary of Maldochini’s will. Whoever
arranged for that shot to be fired knew
not only Vanderstitt Hall but the very
musical score which was being played.
It took fine timing to judge the moment
in advance. My theory is that the singer
either had a quarrel with her—her an¬
cient benefactor, or else discovered that
his will was worth no more than so much
paper. Perhaps both. In that case she
might have offered her conspiring serv¬
ices to whoever wanted to do away with
Maldochini. Yet she was perfectly ca¬
pable of double-crossing them, as they
may have known.”
“But there’s her husband, Ambin. Cir¬
cumstantial evidence suggest^ he killed
her. It can’t be proved, now he’s dead.
And—well, heart-failure may not be just
the—”
Latismer nodded.
“I know. If this heart-failure turned
out to be some fancy poison,—as they’re
trying to show in the Maldochini busi¬
ness,—then my theory is shaken because
the premise is based on a shooting.
Grant one poisoning, then the other is
almost proved. But I’m going to assume
Ambin’s heart-failure as legitimate. . . .
God knows he had physiological and psy¬
chological cause enough to make him die
of shock, seeing his wife lying dead—
that’s about what the police make of his
story, from what I understand of it. Let’s
assume it. Keep away from the fantastic
and cling to rationality.”
J OHN saw the logic of that, but there
still remained in the background of
his mind—and in his wallet, too—that
broken bit of needle with its curious
piece of thread still clinging to it. Quill
had scoffed at it. Even he himself had
thought himself out of considering it as
anything triumphant; and yet—the idea
of it persisted.
“Well sir, there’s one thing that—
well, it’s probably nothing at all, but—
I wish you wouldn’t laugh at it, but I
can’t quite put it out of my mind. I
told you about Cora Sue picking that
thread off Maldochini’s arm, but I
didn’t tell you that I found another
piece.”
And he produced the little fragment
from its hiding-place and told the story
of it to Mr. Latismer. The D.A. did not
laugh. He considered it carefully,
weighed it in his mind, shook his head,
and said carefully:
“It is interesting—but any application
of it to the murder would be far-fetched,
John. Looks like a broken hypodermic
needle. But that doesn’t explain the
thread. And a hypodermic needle
would raise the suicide question once
more—which hardly fits with a shooting,
does it? And it certainly doesn’t cast any
light upon the abduction of Miss Gray-
bourne. I suggest that you hand it to
Dr. Muth when you come back from
Washington—j ust to cover all possibilities;
but I hardly think it will be revealing,
unless of course his laboratory discovers
traces of some fantastic poison, which is
not only unlikely but which knocks all
sane theories into a cocked hat. For the
moment I'm going to follow out my the¬
ories. I’ll need your information, at any
rate. You’ll be in the capital at noon
and you will be able to telephone me be¬
fore three o’clock. Now let’s get down
to the details.”
G IVE Phyllis Dent credit; she was en¬
tirely honest in her ill-spoken and ill-
timed response to John Freeward when
he appeared before her door, bedraggled,
dirty, torn and bloody, asking for Cora
Sue that previous evening. Her feminine
instinct told her that Cora Sue had not
yet entirely forgiven John for his earlier
blunders at Vanderstitt Hall on that fa¬
tal night, and that having gone to a
night-club with the amusing Englishman
Wengalle, she was perfectly capable of
making John suffer in a million little
ways that women know only too well.
And so she concluded at sight, that John
had got himself into a drunken fight,
had either left Cora Sue and Wengalle
or had been deserted by them, and had
returned sheepishly to find out the full
depth of his disgrace. That, she knew,
was a classical performance.
Hence her rather distant and even
caustic greeting of the young man.
But when, after an hour had passed
and Cora Sue had not returned to the
flat, she telephoned the Jupiter Club and
found that the party had left early and
that there had been no trouble, she be¬
gan to regret her reception of the young
man. And when, in the morning there
was no silken blonde head pillowed on
Cora Sue’s bed, Phyllis was definitely
164
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
disturbed. By the time she had break¬
fasted alone and was ready to leave for
her job at the Museum, she was as near
to panic as such a girl can ever be.
At a quarter to nine, her telephone
rang. A man’s voice wanted to know:
“Is this Miss Dent? Miss Phyllis Dent,
we want—put her on the wire. This is
the Newtown Road police station. Ser¬
geant Macey speaking.”
“The policel Yes, this is Phyllis Dent.
What’s wrong?”
“Sorry to trouble you, miss, but
there’s been some trouble. We’ve got a
girl here says she lives with you.”
“Cora—Miss Graybourne? Why—”
“That’s the name she give us, miss.
Will you come over here and identify
her?”
“Identify her! Good God, is she—”
“She’s in plenty trouble. She is—you
better get over here right away, miss.”
As her taxicab rumbled swiftly out
through the suburbs, Phyllis’ perplexity
increased with every foot of the journey.
“A girl here says she lives with you!”
the man had said. And, “There’s been
some trouble, miss!” As if Sue hadn’t
had enough trouble for any girl with this
Maldochini business and her nasty mess
with Yvonne Blanchamps and the nosy
cops....
Sergeant Macey sat at a high desk and
looked down at Phyllis through pucker¬
ing eyes.
“Glad you come so quick, miss. This
here is a funny case. The little gal’s
story is—well, plenty screwy: says she was
grabbed right in her own hallway last
night and carried out here. We got a
call from the foreman at Maseratti
Brothers Stamping Mill—the big place
behind the airport over there—just after
eight this morning. They said the watch¬
man had been clubbed to death and
there was a girl locked up in the eighth-
floor shop. We come and got her, but
we can’t make much sense out of her.
She’s pretty scared and pretty—well, you
better go in and see her.”
C ORA SUE was indeed in a state of
mental shock. She flung herself upon
Phyllis and cried hysterically for fully
fifteen minutes before any articulate
story came out of her. Finally, however,
Phyllis was able to get the recitation of
events piece by piece and to put them all
together to make a kind of fantastic
but comprehensible sequence.
“You say the lights were off in the hall
and that they jumped on you while John
was paying the cab? Good Lord, Sue!
That poor boy, I—I thought he was
drunk and—well, never mind that now.
Who were they? Didn’t you see them?
Why should they do anything like this
to you? What was—”
Sue could not answer much of this.
She had not seen either the assailants
nor the man who, apparently, was employ¬
ing them to seize her. She remembered his
words, however—“right of self-defense,
signorina .... better that you remain
here until I shall have departed from this
country.” Those sentences had some
meaning, some clue to it all.
P HYLLIS snatched at them in her swift
way. “That’s it, of course—Maldo¬
chini!”
“Mr. Maldochini? Why, he—”
“They think you know who killed
him. They think you saw something or
that you know something, and—”
“But I’ve told everything I know!”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps you haven’t
said just the right thing yet. Perhaps you
don’t recognize it yourself—they’re afraid
you’ll let it out, even if you don’t know
what it is. They killed Miss Blanchamps
because she knew. They killed her hus¬
band, probably. And the man said he
wanted you held where you couldn’t
talk until he got away. That would
mean—that would mean a ship, prob¬
ably. Some boat sailing before eight
o’clock this morning. There can’t be
very many of them."
She turned to the policemen who had
stood by, witnessing this scene of recog¬
nition, saying:
“Call Lieutenant Quill of the Homi¬
cide Bureau. He’ll know all about this.
Call Mr. Freeward at the District Attor¬
ney’s office. ... He won’t be there prob¬
ably, but call him anyhow. But we’ve
got to see Quill. We’ve got to hurry.”
“Hold on, miss; this is a murder case.
Somebody conked that night watchman,
and this girl was right there, and—”
“Get hold of Lieutenant Quill, and
he’ll clear all that up for you. This is a
lot bigger than any night watchman.
Call him. Please call him. Oh, can’t you
see that every minute counts?”
Sergeant Macey detailed a man to put
in a call. The man returned presently
saying:
“Quill aint over at Homicide. He’s
gone over to the D.A.’s office. It looks
like something’s busted loose there.”
“Then take us over,” urged Phyllis.
“Please take us over in a patrol car.”
165
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
Policeman Macey glowered down at
the two girls.
“I think you’re makin’ a monkey out
of us, miss; but since it’s old Quill you
want, I’ll risk it. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER VIII
I T was a faintly pleasurable sensation,
even to a man as cool and blase as Mr.
Latismer, to sense the feeling of relieved
gladness with which his staff members
greeted him when he arrived that morn¬
ing. All the staff, that is to say, save per¬
haps Mr. Dillion, who seemed a trifle dis¬
concerted.
“Why—er—how do you do, sir!” said
Dillion. “So the papers were right in
saying you’d be with us today. I trust
your vacation was pleasant—such as it
was.”
“Thank you, Dillion. You’ve kept the
office open, I see.”
And he let it go at that while he re¬
moved his hat, coat and gloves, as Dil¬
lion scrambled to vacate the front office
where he had presided during his chief’s
absence.
There was no time for further ex¬
changes, for hardly had the People’s law¬
yer seated himself, when the communica-
tions-box on his desk announced that a
large number of newspaper reporters
had descended for interview. Latismer
knew his press and how to handle its
representatives. He had them enter, in
a body, made a brief statement to the
effect that he “had no statement” at the
moment, but that the day would surely
provide them with an important story,
and dismissed them before they could
beleaguer him with their ready ques¬
tions.
An explosion in the outer corridor an¬
nounced the entrance of Lieutenant
Quill, who stormed in with blood in his
eye, vociferating that his department had
traced Schuldrein to Mr. Latismer’s win¬
ter residence near Sarasota.
“What kind of cooperation you think
that is, D.A.?” he roared. “Here I got
my first real lead in this lousy case, and
you go and hide him—and you the Dis¬
trict Attorney! You want all the credit
for all the stuff we cops can do?”
Latismer kept his coolness.
“Hardly that. Quill,” he said evenly.
“Frankly, I knew nothing about your
suspicions of Schuldrein until he came
to my place voluntarily and unasked,
and told me himself. If I had thought
him guilty of murder, I’d have had him
arrested down there, but I know he
isn’t.”
“The hell he isn’t. I got enough on
that fat guy to hold him from now on.”
“Possibly, but it doesn’t apply to Mal-
dochini’s death. Quill. As a matter of
fact, I brought Schuldrein back with me.
He is probably in his own apartment
right now. If you feel that you really
must question him, I promise you he
will appear on demand. But I wouldn’t
do it.”
“And why, now, I want to know? The
dirt I uncovered about that musical
stockbroker would be enough to—”
Latismer gave him a sidelong glance.
“I presume you refer to—shall we say
a past record. He told me about it. Take
that along with the fact that he nearly
committed mayhem on Maldochini be¬
fore witnesses, and I’ll admit it looks
bad; but Schuldrein never killed the
maestro, Quill. Better wait awhile be¬
fore you go off on that tangent. I think
the day may hold a few surprises.”
“The hell you say!” growled Quill. “I
read all the soap you handed the news¬
papers, but you can’t make me believe
you come back here and grab a murderer
out of your sleeve after we all been—”
He might have said more, but he was
interrupted by a voice through the com-
munications-box once more.
“Mr. Latismer? Something screwy go¬
ing on, sir. There’s a couple of Chan-
ford cops out here with two dames in
tow. They want to see Lieutenant Quill,
and they’re looking for Mr. Freeware!
only he aint here.”
Latismer’s brow puckered.
“Did you say they came from Chan-
ford?”
“That’s right. It don’t make much
sense, but those two dames—”
“Send them in.”
And when Cora Sue Grayboume,
Phyllis Dent, and their two official es¬
corts entered the office, a situation which
had seemed lucid to John Latismer be¬
came clouded, obscure and yet nearer to
its solution.
M R. DILLION had plans. Moreover,
he had made a discovery. And for
that reason Mr. Dillion was in the act of
slipping out of the office door while Cora
Sue Grayboume, Phyllis and the Chan-
ford policeman were entering.
Follow Mr. Dillion to his mysterious
destination: the massive building which
housed the Chronicle.
166
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
Mr. Wellington Peavey, city editor, is
a man who knows news when he sees it.
Better than that, he can recognize a
scoop when one walks from the street
unsolicited and grins at him across a
desk. And so when Mr. Dillion and Mr.
Peavey were closeted in Mr. Peavey’s
small office adjoining the city room, the
doors closed, it was not long before a
piece of first-rate villainy was being
spawned between them.
"V/OU know me, Peavey,” Dillion was
I saying. “I have a respectable record
of ten or fifteen years in public offices—a
good party man, you’ll admit, but not a
man to head up a good election cam¬
paign. I know my limitations and ad¬
mit them. Conservative, is the correct
word.”
“All right, Dillion. You want some¬
thing—what is it? Cut the preamble.”
“I do, in fact. I want John Latismer’s
job.”
Peavey whistled.
“You and about five hundred other
lawyers in this town,” he observed.
“What is it to me?”
“Just this: Your paper practically put
Latismer into office. Right now you are
panning him. You are taking away your
support.”
“Not exactly. Latismer is playing
prima donna by staying away when he’s
needed. We’re going to crack that con¬
cert-hall murder case one way or an¬
other. I’m in the business of getting
news, even if I have to make it. Latis¬
mer’s a good man—one of the best. But
that’s only a personal opinion. Official¬
ly, he’s laying down on an important
job. We’re roasting him, true enough,
but that is only part of a bigger thing.
We’re out to get a new deal for the citi¬
zens of this town—better policing, better
protection. The Chronicle has started
that movement, and we’ve forced the
other papers to follow our lead. That
says the whole thing in a nutshell, but
just where do you come in? You want
my personal opinion again? I’ve noth¬
ing against you, Dillion, but you’d make
a rotten district attorney. You simply
aren’t the type. Now what are you try¬
ing to sell me?”
“I’m not quite a fool, Peavey,” said
Dillion with a show of bravado. “Those
high-sounding phrases mean very little.
Your paper has trumped up a remark¬
able circulation-getting scheme at the
expense of the public’s temper. But un¬
less you can actually produce the mur¬
derer of Giuseppe Maldochini—and do
it before some other paper does it, at
that—your scheme falls flat and you have
an impossible situation on your hand*.
“Now here is my proposition: I have
uncovered material evidence which,
properly employed, will of a certainty
lead to a solution of Maldochini’s mur¬
der. Solving that will solve the death of
Yvonne Blanchamps, merely by making
it simple. I can present this evidence to
the police and take such credit as I may
get for it. I can trade it to another news¬
paper for their backing. Or I can ex¬
change it for the Chronicle’s support
next election—written agreement. There
you are.”
Peavey did not reply at once; he mere¬
ly contemplated Dillion with a look of
amazed contempt. Then he said, “Wait
a minute,” and turned a switch on his
communications-box, calling out:
“Hello, boss, you there?”
A voice demanded what was wanted.
“I wish you’d come down here right
away—something hot.”
C yrus T. Barnevfld, owner and pub¬
lisher of the Chronicle, was a rarity
in modern newspaper circles. Rare, be¬
cause he owned his paper outright and
was not a corporation. Rarer, because
he spent five hours daily at his office in¬
stead of entrusting such an enterprise to
a paid manager. When Mr. Bameveld
thrust his corpulence into Peavey’s of¬
fice, his mood was not an expansive one,
and for good reason. Peavey had put
the Chronicle “out on a limb.” While it
was pleasant to envisage the leadership,
the power which would belong to the
revived old Chronicle if they succeeded
in clearing up Maldochini’s murder
where the police had fumbled it, it was
quite another thing to envisage what
might happen if they failed to do it. Or
if some other paper’s staff should suc¬
ceed in the Chronicle’s stead. For Mr.
Bameveld knew, and so did Peavey, that
though they had printed in the Chronicle
a challenge to the police and the city gov¬
ernment, threatening to solve the crime
within a week, if the authorities failed
to do so, they in fact possessed not one
clue, inkling or lead to the mystery, of
which the police—and likewise the entire
public—were not already possessed. In a
mere matter of days, now, his paper must
make good—or become a public laughing¬
stock.
“Well, Peavey?” he said as he came in.
“Ah, Mr. Dillion. ’Morning.”
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Hello, boss. Sit down, will you? This
Dillion says he has dope that will lead
us to the Maldochini murderer.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Bame-
veld, with feeling.
“But he also has ideas about how to
use it.”
“Meaning?”
“He wants to get Latismer’s job. He’ll
trade his dope for our support.”
Bameveld thought that one through.
“You mean—”
“Yeah, I mean just that. We take his
dope, and we slaughter Latismer while
we solve the murder. Then we tout Dil¬
lion for office next election. The old
Chronicle becomes the savior of life and
liberty. Circulation jumps a million.
The new D.A. is this rodent Dillion.”
Dillion stiffened, at that.
“Now, see here, Peavey—” he began,
but the city editor smashed his fist on
the desk.
“You’re a lousy, sneaking rat, Dillion,
and you’d sell your own mother’s hide
for a drumhead. Personally I think you
smell. But I’m bound to listen to what
you’ve got, unless the boss says I can
toss you out of the window—which, may
I say, would be a pleasure.”
“I’ll have you understand—”
“Shut up!” Peavey was a big man
when he stood up, and Dillion shrank
back into his chair. “This paper doesn’t
need your kind of help, Dillion. Even
if you’ve got something—which I doubt
—we wouldn’t trade you—”
But Cyrus Barneveld’s voice cut in:
“One moment, Peavey. You express
my personal sentiments perfectly, but—
but unfortunately, the Chronicle is an
institution. Our position in this chal¬
lenge is a dubious one, at best. If this
man can show me, in a word, that he can
lead us to a new angle on that case, I
think I would agree to trade such sup¬
port as we might have.”
D ILLION relaxed, and a sly smile came
over his face. Dillion’s skin, per¬
haps, was no thicker than the skin of
most men, but he was not the man to
allow mere insult to interfere with well-
laid plans for progress. He spoke very
slowly, as though weighing each word:
“I can show you,” he said. “But I will
want a written agreement in such a form
as would incriminate this paper entirely,
in the event you gentlemen—ah—are
thinking of—”
“Double-crossing you?” snarled Pea¬
vey. “Only a rat would think of that.”
And Barneveld said:
“How do I know you aren’t bluffing,
Dillion?”
“Because I’m going to give you a clue
to it—one that you cannot use without
my help.”
“Well?”
“Maldochini’s name was Rosso—Giu¬
seppe Rosso. He was a fifth-rate violinist
in America until 1915, when he got
mixed up in a scandal and ran out of
the country.”
“So what?”
“Yvonne Blanchamps’ is a stage name.
The woman’s own name is Rosso—Ange¬
lina Rosso.”
“Good heavens! His sister?” This
was Barneveld.
Dillion shook his head.
“No, his wife. They were married in
America.”
“Which proves?” This was skeptical
Peavey.
“Nothing—except that Maldochini
had filed a will. He named Angelina
Rosso in his will. I have a brother who
is a surrogate—not in this city, gentle¬
men.”
A BSOLUTE silence followed that state-
r\ ment. Peavey got up from his seat
and paced the floor. Finally he snorted
with ill-concealed disgust:
“You can go to hell, for all me.”
But Mr. Bameveld held up a hand in
remonstrance.
“Let me see the kind of agreement you
think we might sign,” he said. Dillion
fumbled in an inner pocket. Peavey was
staring at his employer with a strange
expression on his face.
“You aren’t going to do it, boss,” he
said in a low voice. “The Chronicle has
always been a clean paper. I wouldn’t
work for any other kind.”
Bameveld’s face showed signs of red,
but he shook his head.
“Business,” he said, “is business, Pea¬
vey. I’d rather have Dillion for D.A. than
see the Chronicle fold up. Let’s have your
proposition, Dillion." •
Peavey said something unprintable.
Dillion gave an oily smile.
Bameveld took a paper from Dillion’s
hand and fixed on his nose-glasses.
168
MURDER IN E-PLAT MAJOR
OHN Latismer had got to his feet.
“So you didn’t actually see this man
you think is an Italian, Miss Gray-
bourne?” he asked. “I mean to say, you
did not see him well enough to describe
him or identify him?”
“Oh, no. He was standing there in
the door with a hat on and his collar
turned up around his face; and besides,
I was so frightened and—”
“I can quite imagine how you felt.
But you are quite sure that he was a for¬
eigner?”
“Yes indeed. He was an Italian—I’m
almost positive.”
“Not Spanish, you think? There is a
similarity of language and accent, you
know.”
Cora Sue considered this, but said:
“I don’t think so. You see I—well, I’ve
studied Italian a little. I—I wanted to be
a singer once and I—”
“Language of opera, eh? Well, let us
assume he was a foreigner of some
kind—”
“Oh, he was. I’m sure of that.”
“And by his own words he was leaving
this country sometime before eight
o’clock this morning.”
He turned to Quill:
“I wish you’d send one of your men
to the local office of the Neapolitan. I
happen to notice that their ship Belluca
sailed at five this morning. I believe that
is the only passenger line with such early
sailings in winter. However, we’ll check
that. I want to know when she cleared
the emigration office, and precisely what
her position is expected to be at four
o’clock. I’ll check with the Port Authori¬
ty on freight vessels, meanwhile.”
Quill seemed to disapprove. He said:
“All right, if you want it, but how do
we know this fellow sailed, anyhow?
There are airplanes and railroads.”
“Certainly, but it isn’t likely he’s us¬
ing them. It must have been around two
o’clock when he talked to Miss Gray-
bourne. Even supposing he was all ready
to depart, and counting half an hour to
get to his point of departure, it would be
nearer three in the morning, wouldn’t
it? That leaves just five hours in which
to leave the United States. He might fly
to Canada in that time, but the Latin
flavor of him doesn’t suggest Canada.
Mexico and South America are far more
than five hours air or railroad time if he
was to be out of this country by eight.
“He could fly to New York, however—to
embark there. ... I hold out for a
ship. Quill.”
It was Phyllis Dent who offered her
opinion now.
“Even so, one can hardly arrest a ship¬
ful of passengers, Mr. Latismer, and we
haven’t identified—”
“Quite logical, of course, but if we
know the only ship our Mr. X. can be
on, we have him fairly safe where he
can’t get away until we do identify him.
And I am expecting information which
will perhaps do just that.”
“You mean?”
“I mean that our young friend Mr.
Freeward may pick up some important
material which he will telephone.”
Cora Sue brightened at the mention of
John Freeward’s name, and exclaimed:
“Oh, I do hope Johnny isn’t hurt too
badly.”
“He’s rather bunged up, but he’ll
mend, young lady. Now I think we can
say that this interview is over—that is
unless these Chanford officers insist on
holding Miss Graybourne.”
The sergeant from across the river had
contributed little or nothing for the last
thirty minutes, but he squirmed with
pleasure as the famous District Attorney
referred to him.
“Well, sir,” he said, “since all this ties
in with another case, I guess we can
leave her in your hands; but we still got
a murder—that watchman.”
“Ah, yes, of course. But if you will
consider Lieutenant Quill and myself
sufficient security, I think you can safely
let these young women return home. I
promise you that if your watchman isn’t
cleared up today, they’ll be quite ready
to answer any summons.”
“Well, if you say so, sir, I guess I got to
let ’em go.” And the two policemen de¬
parted, while the two young women, get¬
ting from their seats with visible relief,
began thanking the District Attorney for
his kindness and understanding.
CHAPTER IX
"1\/[R. SICKLE will see you now, sir.”
iVl John Freeward jumped at the
sound of the voice. He had waited his
hour in a small book-lined office of the
State Department. Having hastened
from the airport to Washington, having
bribed a taxi-driver for extra speed to
carry him, having waited almost thirty
minutes before he had first been admit¬
ted to see this Mr. Sickle and present
Mr. Latismer’s note, this extra hour’s de¬
lay had driven him almost frantic.
169
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
He followed the uniformed attendant
into an elevator and aloft to Mr. Sickle’s
upstairs office. The man sat behind his
unlittered desk, smoking a pipe.
ELL, young man, you’ve started
something,” were his first words. “I
didn’t know what I was in for when I
mentioned the name of Maldochini at
the Legation. Sit down. Sorry you had
to wait but perhaps it has been worth it.”
John sat down.
“Ever hear of the Buffa?” Sickle asked.
“No. What is it, an opera?”
“Not quite. It’s an organized semi¬
political vendetta. The Fascist govern¬
ment is trying to stamp it out in Italy,
but without much luck. When I men¬
tioned Maldochini’s name over there
just now, the second undersecretary
looked like a cat with a canary halfway
down his throat. Apparently they’ve
been expecting an investigation and hop¬
ing it wouldn’t come. Anyhow, they’re
scared stiff—scared right out of diplomat¬
ic language. So they talked turkey.”
“Well, sir?”
“Well, I’ll have to prefix all this by
saying that it’s got to be unofficial. The
State Department won’t play ball with
you and Latismer. Can’t do it. To make
official representations with the Italian
government would be—well, undiplo¬
matic, to say the least. I’m sorry. I’d do
a great deal for John Latismer. We were
in the war together. I don’t see him
often, but I count him among my best
friends. Besides which, this Maldochini
murder seems to be raising a particular
brand of hell in New York, and I’d like
to help you clear it up.”
“But I don’t understand, sir.”
“I suppose not. Put it this way. The
Italian legation is convinced that Mal¬
dochini was murdered by a member of
the Buffa. Apparently they thought so
from the first time the news broke down
here in Washington. But Maldochini
is not any longer an Italian citizen. He
was exiled and disgraced last summer.
Officially the Italian government owes
him no protection.”
“Disgraced? Did you leant why?”
“More or less. There is a powerful
anti-Fascist group in Italy still, and al¬
though he had been elevated to a good
station in the State, he had been dealing
with the opposition. Somebody gave him
away, and the result was exile—official
result, I mean.
“Now, this Buffa is a sort of unofficial
Ogpu. It seems to be a bunch of fanat¬
ical Fascists who have elected themselves
to the job of purging enemies of the
State, and it looks as though the Buffa
had eliminated Signor Maldochini.”
“Well, then why don’t we—”
“Because the Italian government
doesn’t want it to come out that there
still exists any organization so strong
that it cannot be stamped out by the
State. In other words, Italy is now a
modern civilized country, and the fact
that such a group as the Buffa could not
only act to kill a man so well known as»
Maldochini, but could do it in a foreign I
country—well, it wouldn’t look so well
for their era of progress, would it?”
“I see—but that all seems very hypo¬
thetical.”
“Not quite. The thing that has the
legation down is the fact that a man
known to be an agent of the Buffa ar¬
rived in New York two weeks ago. Ap¬
parently they don’t know where he is,
but they do know he’s here. Now, if the
American press got hold of this story and
smeared it all over the country—as they
would, naturally, then what happens to
Italian tourist propaganda, and what
happens to public opinion?”
J OHN was out of his element, but there
seemed to be a lot of logic in the im¬
plication, and he nodded.
“Then you think—”
“I think the legation knows a lot more
than they’ll say. But I know the State
department won’t institute an investiga¬
tion—not an official one. No use stirring
up a strained relationship with a foreign
office.”
“But a crime like that—three crimes—”
“I know. It looks bad. But since the
man wasn’t an Italian subject, and since
his government makes no protest—well,
friendly foreign relations are worth more
than the lives of a trio of musicians.
Sounds cold-blooded, but that’s the way
things are. It’s simply realism.”
“Then what are we—what can I do?”
Mr. Sickle lifted his eyebrows.
“Ah, my boy, that’s different. I told
you that this is unofficial. I’m trusting
you and Latismer to keep the newspapers
out of it. But if I were you, I’d look for
a man named Vampa—Jacoppo Vampa.
I believe his visit over here is tied up
with commerce, officially—metals, stamp¬
ing- and rolling-mills, cold-rolled steel-
something like that. Now that is abso¬
lutely all I can tell you. And mind you,
after you leave here, I shall deny every¬
thing. I never heard of you in my life.
170
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
Clear? Well, good luck, young man. My
regards to Latismer.”
And as John Freeward walked down
the steps of the State Building, he felt
deadened, like a man dropped into a
void. There was bitterness in his face
as he sought the nearest telephone.
S MALL Dickie Dubbs, office boy to
the District Attorney’s staff, was a lad
to know trouble when he saw it standing
in front of him, and this bulky fellow
who had just lurched through the door
preceded, so to speak, by a barrage of
alcoholic vapors, spelled trouble plainly
enough for Dickie. Double trouble, in
fact.
The man came in, his battered felt hat
at an aggressive angle over an eye, weav¬
ing just a little and standing over
Dickie’s reception-desk like a human
Tower of Pisa, as he said:
“Listen, brat, you go in and tell Latis¬
mer I want to see him pronto ” Dickie
was worried. Double trouble, double
trouble!
“Yessir,” he said politely, edging to
the extremity of his seat. “But the D.A.
is pretty busy right now, and—”
A heavy fist slammed down on his
desk.
“Don’t argue with me, brat. Latis-
mer’ll see me if I have to break up this
office. Get going before I toss you out
of the window, brat. The name is Pea-
vey—Wellington Peavey.”
And so Dickie Dubbs got going, but
he was worried. For something, Dickie
knew, had gone wrong with the D.A. He
had appeared in the office that morning,
all smiles, all graciousness, his usual en¬
ergetic and faintly picturesque self. He
had had conference after conference.
There had even been some small gam¬
bling among the staff-members anent the
probability of the great John Latismer,
with a rabbit-out-of-hat gesture, solving
the Maldochini case and once more cov¬
ering himself with public praise to the
confusion of the hostile newspapers.
And then had come a long-distance
telephone-call; Dickie Dubbs himself had
switched the call through. No one knew
just what that call was about, but the
effect of it on Mr. Latismer had been
very evident. It had, in short, upset his
usually well-governed temper. After that
call he had verbally flayed Mr. Greffiths
alive for a trivial error. He had shouted
rudely at his secretary. He had slammed
his office door, had locked it, and had in¬
formed Dickie at the desk that he didn’t
want to see anybody, not even if it was
the President or Hizzoner the Mayor.
And when, just a few moments ago Mr.
Latismer had telephoned in to discover
if Mr. Dillion had returned to the office,
learning that he had not yet come in, his
language to Dickie, the innocent bearer
of the news, was not only shocking, un¬
fair and unprintable, but entirely unlike
John Latismer.
Dickie knocked timidly. There was no
answer. He tapped more loudly. A Ve-
suvian eruption of sulphurous words
shook the door.
“What the blankety-blankety-blank did
I say about leaving me alone, you blank¬
ety-blankety-blank?” But Dickie, in his
uncomfortable posture between two dan¬
gers, stuck to his guns.
“I’m sorry, sir, but—but there’s a man
outside.”
“Tell him I’m out. Tell him to go to
hell. Tell him-”
“He insisted you’d see him, sir. His
name is Peavey—Mr. Wellington Peavey.
He seems to be just a little—”
“Then send him in, you little idiot!”
came Latismer’s voice through the door,
and Dickie heard the lock slip as he ran
off in bewilderment.
M R PEAVEY followed a zigzag course
through the hall to Latismer’s of¬
fice. Dickie’s ushering job done, he re¬
treated to his receptionist’s desk and
murmured a prayer.
Mr. Peavey, once inside, stood waver-
ingly, gazing at Latismer through in¬
flamed eyes for several seconds before he
said:
“There’s one thing about you, Latis¬
mer. You look like a D.A. Got to hand
it to you.”
Latismer was in no mood for such
talk.
“You’re drunk, Peavey,” he said. “Cut
it short. I suppose you came here to tell
me that your damned newspaper—”
“Whose damn’ newspaper? I got no
newspaper.”
“I mean the Chronicle. I know who
started that campaign to—”
Peavey slumped into a chair and
waved a hand.
“Tha’s what you think, Latismer. Now
listen. I just quit the Chronicle. I jus’
uit Barneveld cold. Tha’s why I come
own here to tell you. I jus’—”
But Latismer broke in:
“Get on with it, man. What are you
trying to tell me? I’m in no state of
mind for—”
171
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
“Awright, then shut up and lemme
tell it. Where’s that tadpole called Dil-
lion?”
Mr. Latismer’s most distinguishing
characteristic was his ability to appear
calm under adverse stress. “Dillion?” he
inquired. “What has he to do with it?
Why do you ask? Dillion is out, so far
as I know. He left the office shortly be¬
fore lunch-time. I presume he has some
business in connection with—”
“I’ll say he’s got business, D.A. You
wanna know where that pickle-puss
stuffed shirt is right now? I’l tell you.
Right now he’s sitting in Cyrus Bame-
veld’s big plush-lined office, smoking Ha¬
vanas and selling you down the river.
That’s where he is.”
Latismer gave the man an inquiring
glance.
“Selling me—drunk or sober, that’s an
odd thing to say, Peavey. Just what do
you imply?”
“Imply, nothing. I’m telling you
straight. That secondhand rubber stamp
of an assistant has got him a new set of
ideas, Latismer. He wants your job, and
he’s cutting your throat to get it.”
“Interesting,” said Latismer, now con¬
vinced that the man was suffering from
alcoholic delusions, “if true.”
“It’s damn’ true.”
“Then just why are you telling me? I
was under the impression that your pa¬
per would be glad to see me out, Peavey.
In fact, from a certain editorial, written
by yourself—”
“Sure, I know. I’m a newspaper man,
not a good Samaritan, Latismer. I don’t
owe you anything. It was my own idea
to crack down on you—not particularly
because I’ve got anything against you,
but because it made the kind of news
people like to read. But that is all part
of the game. You like to play prima
donna, and you take your chance. Per¬
sonally, I think you're all right. Maybe
you aren’t the best D.A. in the world,
but you’re pretty good. And I wouldn’t
be a party to sticking you in the back
and shoving that crumb called Dillion
in your job, Latismer. Not me, I
wouldn’t. And that’s why I quit cold on
old Cyrus T. Bameveld.”
JATISMER’S frown was a puzzled one.
Li “You quit the Chronicle ? When?”
“Half an hour ago. Five whiskies ago.
I quit when I left Barneveld and this
Dillion practically necking and getting
ready to make a monkey out of you in
the Maldochini case.”
“The Maldochini case!” That single
name brought the discouragement back
into Latismer’s soul again. “Just what
is it you’re trying to tell me, Peavey?”
“Kinda interests you now, eh? Okay,
sit back and relax while I tell you.”
And for a quarter of an hour or more
Peavey recounted the facts of Dillion’s
visit to the Chronicle office.
W HEN he had finished Latismer was
thoughtful.
“A pretty fantastic story, Peavey. Sup¬
pose it’s true that Dillion, taking advan¬
tage of my absence, has stumbled on a
clue—if it is a clue. Why have you told
me this? What is to prevent me from
including this material in my own activi¬
ties and taking the lead away from Dil¬
lion? Besides, Dillion is no fool. Why
would he show his hand so quickly, be¬
fore Barneveld signed such an agree¬
ment with him?”
“Why not? He holds a document,
doesn’t he? And you can’t prove any¬
thing without it. You could work up
his case for him but in the end it would
be Dillion who produced the evidence.”
“Even so—even if he can prove that
Yvonne Blanchamps was really Maldo-
chini’s wife and that he willed money to
her as such, all it does is to make her a
bigamist and a pretty hard case—which
we know already, for that matter. It
doesn’t prove murder.”
“No, but it sets up circumstances
which a jury would convict her on—espe¬
cially now she’s dead. You know juries.”
“Possibly. And then how would you
account for her death?”
“Ambin, of course. Either he found
out she was married to Maldochini, or
he was just plain jealous—a rabbit with
hydrophobia.”
“All theoretical, isn’t it? And who
killed Ambin?”
“Nobody has proved he was killed yet,
have they? Call it heart-failure.”
Latismer paced his office. Finally he
stopped and faced the newspaper man.
“It won’t wash, Peavey. Unless some¬
body can produce a pistol with Yvonne
Blanchamps’ fingerprints on it, and evi¬
dence that it was fired by her from some
point in Vanderstitt Hall, you can’t get
a conviction—not even a posthumous
one. And listen, Peavey: I have plenty
of evidence, myself, to show that she
didn’t do it, because I can almost prove
somebody else did —almost is not the
word: I can just about conclusively prove
it—only—”
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
His voice took on a tired note here,
and he resumed, after a pause:
“Only, I can’t.”
Peavey stared at him “Now,” he
asked, “who’s talking in circles?”
Latismer slumped in his seat and nod¬
ded gloomily.
“I know,” he said. “I had an hypoth¬
esis—a sound one. There is a great deal
more to it than I’ve said. A lot of things
have happened that you don’t know,
Peavey. Things that prove conclusively
that the man who shot Maldochini, and
probably La Blanchamps too, is a hun¬
dred miles out in the Atlantic Ocean
right now. And I can’t do anything
about it.”
Peavey wrinkled his nose. “Interest¬
ing,” he said in his turn, “if true.”
“It’s true, all right. Fantastically true.
I almost wish it were not. I almost wish
something could establish this poison
theory, incredible as it is. For instance,
if this man Ambin did not die of natural
causes—oh, well, that seems out of the
question. But I want to thank you for
coming here, Peavey. I had no idea that
our friend Dillion was so ambitious.
However, it doesn’t matter now. Let
him peddle his information to Barne-
veld. The worst that can happen is that
the Chronicle will be out on the same
limb that I’ve been on. Barneveld will
start something he can’t finish—nobody
can.”
The telephone tinkled on Latismer’s
desk. The D.A. lifted the receiver and
spoke wearily. Then, in a gesture of ab¬
solute astonishment, he dropped the in¬
strument with a clatter.
“What’s that?” he shouted, retrieving
it. Then after a moment he hung up
and stared at Peavey like a man dazed
from a blow.
“Ambin!” he said, as though he could
only say that one word. “Ambin!”
“Huh? What about him?”
“Poisoned. Autopsy report—seems de¬
cisive: poisoned. That tears it.”
J ohn Freeward sat at the soda-foun¬
tain of the airport’s waiting-hall,
trying to regain his courage. Three
empty glasses littered the counter in front
of him, and he made a wry effort at tear¬
ing his mind away from the discourage¬
ment and fear which beset him, by toying
idly with the soda-straws. He had built a
miniature log cabin on the marble coun¬
ter while the clerk, fussing with sand¬
wiches at the other end, frowned at him
disapprovingly. His plane was due to
depart at five o’clock and there remained
still fifteen minutes of this intolerable
waiting-time. The feeling of failure sat
heavily upon him. The only relief was
what Mr. Latismer had told him over
the phone after he had reported his dis¬
couraging news.
“Don’t worry about Miss Graybourne,
John,” he had said. “She’s safe and sound
—had a bad experience, but she’s all right
now. No time to go into that, but I
wanted you to know.”
As if a man can hear that the girl he
loves has gone through a “bad experi¬
ence” and let it go at that!
B Y splitting a straw and using the cleft
to hold a ridgepole, he found he
could put a peak roof on his log cabin.
Windows were too much of a problem,
however, and he soon gave up that at¬
tempt. Besides, the soda-clerk was grow¬
ing more indignant at the wanton waste
of straws. . . . The hell of it was that
feeling of rebuff and failure. Latismer
had expected him to get results, not ex¬
cuses. . . . The little cabin of straws was
like a pre-revolutionary blockhouse. No,
rather a bamboo house in the jungle.
Headhunters all around—you could
shoot through the apertures when they
attack. Oueer how such ideas will come
to you when really you’re worried sick
and disgusted. . . . But the headhunters
can shoot through the apertures, too....
Poison-arrows. . . . Blowpipes.
He made a miniature blowpipe out of
a soda-straw and blew a broken match-
stick at the cabin. It was very realistic.
Too much so for the soda-clerk, who
winked at the little group of people sit¬
ting at the counter watching the antics
of this quite evidently drunken young
man.
But the match-stick was too light and
lost balance and instinctively John
looked for a pin in the masculine pin¬
cushion of his lapel. And then he re¬
membered. From his wallet he took out
the broken bit of needle or steel tube or
whatever, with its oddly glued-on thread.
He stuck the thing in his straw and blew
it. It carried well, straight as an arrow,
and its force was enough to knock down
the tiny cabin onto the marble counter.
173
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
He stared at what he had done. . . .
Suddenly he let out a shout.
A hidden loud-speaker was blaring out
the announcement that the next plane
was ready to receive passengers and
would take off in five minutes.
And the knot of soda-drinkers, smil¬
ingly observing the antics of this pre¬
occupied young alcoholic, were startled
and amazed to see him all but leap across
the counter to retrieve what looked like
a common pin, hearing him shout,
shamelessly and without restraint;
“By God, that’s it! That’s got to be
it!”
After which this young madman seized
an entire handful of soda-straws and
made a frantic dash for the runway
where passengers for the plane were al¬
ready hurrying to the field.
The soda-clerk gave a little sigh of
relief and winked at his customers.
“Nuts!” he said. “Just nuts, he is.”
F AST as airplanes are, not even they
have the speed to keep abreast of the
human mind, once it gets afire. Dark had
long since fallen when John’s plane de¬
posited him at the airport. In his taxi¬
cab, he tried to soften the fatigue of his
furious thinking by turning on the radio.
The strains of swing and the chatter of
a recorded advertisement annoyed him,
however, and he was about to shut the
thing off again, when the announcer
proclaimed:
"We interrupt Ben Aielmann’s per¬
petual band to bring you a flash bulle¬
tin from the Intercity Press Association
concerning the country’s most baffling
crime—”
The words arrested Freeward’s fingers
at the button.
“Announced this evening by the po¬
lice department that the death of Basile
Ambin, member of the Masterpiece Sym¬
phony Orchestra and husband of the
singer Yvonne Blanchamps, who died in
jail last Tuesday night, succumbed to a
violent and rare poison, and did not, as
originally reported, die of heart-failure.
This startling announcement comes up¬
on the heels of another printed in the
Chronicle this evening, to the effect
that that newspaper is prepared to an¬
nounce the name of Signor Maldochini’s
murderer should the police not have ob¬
tained a conviction by next Monday
morning. For further details see your
Intercity newspapers.”
And as the strains of swing began their
raucous moaning once more, John
leaned toward the driver’s window and
rapped sharply.
“I’ll give you an extra five if you can
make the address I gave you in thirty
minutes flat from here. Step on it, for
God’s sake.”
And the chauffeur, with a leer replied:
“Okay, buddy, for a fiver we sprout
wings. Hold everything.”
F T was nine o’clock when John Free-
ward reached his little flat. Once at the
head of his own stairs and fumbling in
the lock with his key, he thought only
of getting to the telephone to let Mr.
Latismer know of his return and to urge
him to come post-haste. But when he
dialed the number and waited for some
response from the District Attorney’s of¬
fice, came the metallic voice of a central
operator informing him: “Your party
does not answer; shall I call you in twen¬
ty minutes?”
He said a fervent “Damn.” On a sec¬
ond inspiration he reached for the phone
again, but his gesture was interrupted
by a knock at his door. Crossing and
opening, he found the bearded figure of
Mr. Peter Wengalle standing there with
a glinting monocle focused at him.
“Where the devil have you been, old
chap? I’ve been on your wire for two
hours or so—had a bit of a word for you.
Thought I’d drop in and pick you up.
We’ll be in plenty of time to call on your
charming fiancee before I leave. Am I
asked in?”
“Leave?” John’s mind made an effort
in reverse and forcefully recalled their
half-promise to see Wengalle off that eve¬
ning.
“Oh, of course,” he said. “But I—I’m
afraid things have—”
Wengalle’s big body filled a chair.
“Can’t make it after all? No matter,
though I’m truly sorry, at that. But-
well, I had a queer flash of memory.
Probably nothing at all, still—I—well, I
thought I’d try my idea out on you.
Might be something in it.”
John was puzzled at the man’s un¬
usually hesitant manner. He said, with¬
out much enthusiasm:
“I’m dull tonight—you said a flash of
memory?”
Wengalle sprawled out in a chair and
lighted his pipe.
“The other night, you know, at that
place .... Spinelli’s or Spingam’s or—
something quite spinal. Well, there was
that waiter, remember? The one with
the Adam’s apple in profile—some odd
174
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
story about him. He played in the Mas¬
terpiece, I believe.”
“Oh, you mean Cora Sue’s panhan¬
dler? That’s right, he played the oboe.
He had some story about Maldochini.”
“Exactly. I said at the time that he
looked familiar, remember? Well, dash
it all, it’s come to me. That fellow’s a
double for Raspucci.”
“Raspucci?”
“But of course, Benedetto Raspucci.
Ah, but you wouldn’t know about him.
Great name in musical circles, Raspucci.
Mystery, too. He had a little orchestra
in Florence—played nothing but his own
music, which was—well, it had a quality.
Music for musicians, but the critics all
thought the man was a genius—a Sibelius
or a Richard Strauss or even another De¬
bussy. Queer sort of fish, he was. Re¬
fused public honors and wouldn’t be in¬
terviewed, and practically starved to
death. Then one day he vanished—just
dropped out. There was a report he
was dead.”
“But what has all that to do with
the—
“With our waiter? Perhaps nothing
at all, but—well, it isn’t likely that there
would be two Italians with that same
formation of the larynx, eh? Damme,
but I’d swear this waiter fellow is Bene-
ndetto Raspucci, if the thing were pos-
| sible. And the other coincidence is his
playing the oboe. Raspucci played it.
Hobby with him. And by the way, he’s
composed two sonatas and a concerto
for oboe, which is a rarity in itself.”
W ENGALLE’S attention was arrested
at the look on John Freeward’s face,
but he did not quite understand it.
“Damn’ queer, isn’t it?” he demanded
puffingly.
John spoke very slowly: “It’s queerer
than you think. Did you know that this
waiter calls himself Ben Rasp?”
“By Jove!”
“It’s a fact. And he got his job in the
Masterpiece because Maldochini recog¬
nized him as having played in some Ital¬
ian orchestra.”
“Fantastic! Ironical, too, because
Raspucci had Maldochini in his orches¬
tra-first violin. And when the late but
not lamented maestro published that
‘Cain’ thing, and won the national sub¬
sidy prize for it, all the critics and musi¬
cians thought Raspucci should have had
it instead. Made an unpleasant situa¬
tion. Raspucci dropped out, about then.
Story is, he was heartbroken—one of
those sentimental and probably absurd
pieces of journalism. Now, I—”
“Wait,” said John Freeward. “Wait a
minute, Wengalle. Let me think. May¬
be you’ve got something there; maybe
it’s— No, of course that’s absurd. But
listen: perhaps you can help me figure
out something even more insane than
that. How much time have you?”
“Two hours or so. Why?”
J ohn Freeward held up a hand to
warn Wengalle he must wait and look
and say nothing. Then he drew
two or three soda-straws from his pocket,
took a common pin from his dresser,
jerked a piece of wool yarn from a
ragged old sweater in. his wardrobe, and
proceeded to behave in a way which, to
Wengalle, was nothing short of mysteri¬
ous. He tied a piece of yam about an
inch long to the head end of the pin. He
thrust the pin into a straw and retreated
to the end of the room, where he stood
facing Wengalle.
“You are now playing the role of Wil¬
liam Tell’s little boy, Wengalle—but the
role is slightly confused with that of a
guinea pig. Hold out your right arm.”
Wengalle cocked his monocle in
amazement, but did as instructed.
Zip! John blew the end of the straw,
and a silver streak flashed from straw to
the Englishman’s arm.
Wengalle winced.
“Hi!” he shouted. “What the devil
kind of a game is this, man? That
stings.” He was about to remove the tiny
dart, but Freeward called to him to leave
it alone. Hurrying to examine the pin,
he found it buried deep in the thick
tweed of Wengalle’s coat.
“Look and see if it left a mark or
drew blood,” he asked the Englishman.
But apparently the point had not pene¬
trated flesh.
“I say, would you mind telling me
what in thunder you’re doing? You seem
otherwise sane enough, you know.”
“I’m sane enough. I’ve had a mad
brain-wave, though, which may have
more to it than it would appear—if you’ll
answer my questions.”
"I’m not much on toy blowpipes, but
fire away.”
“Well, what instruments are nearest
the conductor in a symphony orchestra?”
“Eh? That’s an odd one. It would
depend on the orchestra, of course. Sym¬
phony groups are pretty flexible these
days. But the classical arrangement
would put the first violins in a block at
175
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
the conductor’s left, with the second fid¬
dles and violas at his right. Then, be¬
hind them, but in sort of a center block
in the horseshoe, come the ’cellos, and
the wood-winds behind them in ditto.
Why? Just what’s behind all this, Free¬
ware!?”
John shook his head.
“Nothing but a silly hunch, I’m
afraid—only—well, I stumbled onto this
trick of blowing a pin—you know, poi¬
soned arrows in blowpipes from Borneo,
and that sort of thing. And I—well, if
Maldochini were poisoned after all, and
nobody but the players were near him,
then it might be a clue to the way the
poison was stuck in him. If it were
stuck in him. Besides, I found a queer
thing that has been laughed at by every¬
body, but which hangs in my mind as—
oh, hell, of course it’s silly.”
Wengalle frowned.
“You mean—you mean you had some
idea that one of the players blew a poi¬
soned dart to kill the maestro while
playing? Isn’t that a little—well, far¬
fetched?”
“This whole case is far-fetched. Mr.
Latismer—he’s our District Attorney, you
know—he had the thing all solved, only
—well, I can’t tell that story. But his
solution depended on a shooting, and
now that Ambin has been shown to be
poisoned, it all comes back again to the
probability of poisoning. Dr. Muth, the
taxicologist, mentioned curare. That’s a
South American blow-pipe poison.”
“Yes, but he admitted that curare
wouldn’t be strong enough, if I remem¬
ber what the papers said.”
“But he said some poison like curare,
only stronger.”
“And asserted that nobody could get
such a poison.”
“I know. It’s all confused, and I’m a
fool to try to figure it out when even the
experts can’t begin to. . . . Still, that
blowpipe idea .... you saw yourself
what a pin blown out of a straw can do.
Look at this.”
He took the mysterious bit of broken
steel from his lapel, handling it gingerly,
and showed it to Wengalle.
“Careful. It’s just possible it’s loaded
with some fancy poison, at that. I
wouldn’t want to get a scratch from it.”
Wengalle held the fragment in his
hand, while John told him how he hap¬
pened to find it, and mentioned Cora
Sue’s finding of another similar piece.
"I had a hope that some instrument
in the orchestra could act as a blowpipe
—something like that,” said John.
Wengalle grinned. “Novelesque, that.
Unfortunately, wind instruments are all
too big. It would take a thin tube like
your soda-straw.”
“And the blower would have to be no
further than twenty feet away,” John
added. “And even so—that pin didn’t
break the skin, did it? I hoped it would
when I shot you with it, just now. Oh,
well, I guess I’d better forget it.”
Wengalle was suddenly thoughtful.
“Wait!” he exclaimed. “Wait just a
minute, my friend. Perhaps you’ve real¬
ly got an idea there after all. Listen to
this: Of all the instruments in an or¬
chestra, the only one which possesses a
thin tube is the oboe. The oboe! Does
that intrigue you?”
J OHN stared. Wengalle picked up a
pencil and reached for a sheet of
paper on John’s desk and began draw¬
ing a diagram. A longitudinal cross-cut
of the oboe, he showed, pictures an in¬
strument made of a wooden tube ending
in a bell, but blown by a smaller metal
tube which contains the reed.
“That little tube isn’t more than three-
sixteenths or a quarter-inch thick,” said
Wengalle. “But it’s about three inches
long—not long enough to serve as a blow¬
pipe, unfortunately.”
“Besides, the oboe is a wood-wind,
isn’t it? And by your own statement, the
wood-winds are behind the cellos—too
far from the conductor.”
Wengalle was excited now.
“Not necessarily!” he almost shouted.
“That’s the classical arrangement, of
course. But this is Maldochini— Mal¬
dochini, mind you—that clown of a con¬
ductor is famous for shifting his players
into all sorts of experimental positions.
By Jove, I remember now, it was that
Bloc thing, wasn’t it? ‘Une Priere.’ He
changed his men for the second move¬
ment. The wood-winds were almost in
front of him at his right. That was on
account of the oboe part with the flute
background. C-minor—three flats.”
“You mean the oboes were—within
range?”
“Call it that. There were four oboes
within ten feet of the man. Gets an ef¬
fect that way. Shoves the second fiddles
and violas back to the second tier—prob¬
ably on account of the microphone. This
radio broadcasting has done a lot to or¬
chestras.”
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
John was excited, but his excitement
died as he said almost ruefully:
“That’s all very well, but we’re going
off into far-away dimensions. You just
said that the reed tube of an oboe is only
three inches long. Besides, wouldn’t the
reed stop the air-flow? And doesn’t the
oboe—I mean isn’t it held so that it
points downf It doesn’t aim at the con¬
ductor.”
"It could. Listen, my friend, fantas¬
tic as it is, and all but impossible, I be¬
lieve you’re on to something. Look here,
if this oboist of yours turns out to be
Raspucci—damme, the coincidence is too
much. It’s got to have a meaning.”
John needed only that. He stepped to
his telephone and dialed a number as he
said to YVengalle:
“Well, that settles it, Wengalle. You
aren’t going tonight. You’ve got me
worked into a sweat, and I’ll need you to
testify. Better have ’em hold passage for
you. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
But before the Englishman could re¬
ply, John was talking into his telephone.
“Hello—Homicide? I want Quill: is
he there? Well, put him on. Find him
and let me talk to him; dammit, this is
important.” And after a long pause he
spoke again:
“Quill? This is John Freeward. Lis¬
ten: have you still got those instruments
tied up under seal? I mean the Master¬
piece Symphony. Yes? Well, then, you’d
better get over to Vanderstitt Hall and
meet me right off. For God’s sake, stop
arguing; this is big. Get there and bring
along Dr. Bankler and his whole labora¬
tory. We’re going to break the Mal-
dochini case wide open.”
Then he slammed the receiver to shut
off the violent protest that vibrated over
the wire.
Lieutenant Quill challenged:
“What you mean? Aint them two
tooters exactly the same?”
Wengalle looked surprised.
“A child could see they’re not.”
“Yeah? Well maybe cops are dumber
than kids. Anyhow, they look alike to
me.”
“This one has no reed. Lieutenant.
You can see for yourself that a brass tube
has been inserted into the short tube of
the mouthpiece, or reed-holder.”
“What for?”
“I can’t give expert testimony on
that.” Wengalle’s smile was ironical.
“But suppose you ask Mr. Freeward. I
fancy he has an enlightening idea.”
F REEWARD was already taking the
strange instrument from the English¬
man’s hand.
“Will you play guinea pig once more?”
he asked Wengalle; and the critic stepped
down the room some ten paces. John
turned to the others, holding out his
hand.
“What I’ve got here is a common pin
with a piece of black yam tied to it.
Keep your eye on it a minute.” He
thrust the pin into the oboe’s mouth-
iece, aimed it, blew it—and saw the tiny
art bury itself in Wengalle’s sleeve.
“There you are, Lieutenant,” he said
with a gesture. “That inserted tube
makes a nice little blowgun—nearly two
feet of it in there. What we are trying
to show you is that if that pin were a
hollow needle loaded with some fast and
deadly poison—”
Quill snorted. “You wouldn’t be try¬
ing to tell me that a pin would make a
hole like a .22 bullet, son?” he said.
“Naturally not. Leave the bullet
wound out of this for a while. We’ll
take that up when we come to it.”
“Then what?”
CHAPTER X
M r. Peter Wengalle was puzzling
over the instrument as he spoke.
He had already tried blowing through
the little tube at its smaller end, but
had produced no musical sound. He
had pulled it apart at its joints and stood
there staring at the long brass tube which
{ >rotruded through the upper into the
ower section, as he said guardedly:
“Well, gentlemen, if you are looking
for oddities, here is one. It looks like an
oboe. It is built like an oboe. In short,
it has been an oboe; but it isn’t capable
“I say that poison could be shot
through this gadget.”
“I say you’re crazy.”
“Then why would the owner of this
oboe have taken the trouble to fix up an
expensive instrument so that it wouldn’t
make a sound? And why bring it into a
concert with an important orchestra?”
“How would I know? I aint a musi¬
cian, thank Godl Maybe he just did it
to make a monkey out of us.”
“And if they show a poison was in that
needle I showed you, then what?”
“Then—oh, hell, Feeney, you check me
that oboe on the list and find out which
one of those players owns it.”
177
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
The officer addressed replied:
“I already done that, Chief. There’s
four oboists and five oboes here. This
one, and the one in that case, belong to a
feller named Rasp.”
Wengalle and Freeward stared at each
other. John said to Quill:
“Remember the player who said he
was also a soda-jerker in a drug store
when 1 butted into your examination
that night? His name was Ben Rasp,
Lieutenant. Maldochini gave him his
job. He works at a drug-store on—”
“Feeney,” snapped Quill. “Go pick
that feller up and bring him down here.”
John shook his head.
“Better wait until you’re more con¬
vinced, Quill. Here is Doctor Bankler
and the other one. Let’s hear them first.
I don’t want to have you think I’m mak¬
ing a monkey out of you.”
D R. BANKLER wore a puzzled expres¬
sion as he stepped into the little
room. “Where did you get that broken
hypo-needle. Quill?” he wanted to know.
Quill jerked his thumb toward Freeward
and briefly told the Doctor of the circum¬
stances, adding: “What you find out?”
“Whoever held that thing in his hand
for a minute has been risking his life.
There is probably enough poison left on
that needle to kill ten men in a few min¬
utes. It’s—why, man, it’s unbelievable.”
“What poison?”
Dr. Bankler shook his head.
“I’m not at all sure. I would say alka¬
loid derivative—possibly of curare. Its
reactions resemble curare but infinitely
stronger. I’ve called Dr. Muth, who will
give his opinion on our somewhat hasty
analysis. Whatever it is, precisely, it is
a terrible poison. And”— he gave Quill
a quick flash of his eye—“it conclusively
proves my original contention that Mal¬
dochini was poisoned. You can write
that down. Quill. Doubtless it goes for
Ambin too. It only remains to show how
an hypodermic injection could have been
administered while Ambin was held in
jail. But that is a police matter, and no
concern of mine.”
Quill appeared to meditate. Then he
asked: “How much of this poison is
needed to kill. Doc?”
“I can’t answer that. Dr. Muth will
doubtless be able to give you an opinion,
but it is outside of my scope. Quill.
However, unofficially, of course, I might
venture a guess that even a microscopic
quantity of this poison might cause a
muscular paralysis of the heart, due to
paralysis of the nerve centers. I said it
was curare-like, once it enters the blood¬
stream.”
“Call it heart-failure?”
“In layman’s language that might
serve. Scientifically, of course—”
“Never mind. Doc. I give in. I been
cockeyed about this whole case, and I ad¬
mit it. Only, I still don’t see how come
we take a bullet out of a feller’s head
and then prove he was poisoned. I never
heard of a double-action murder, only in
story books.”
Freeward offered a note at this point.
“I think, Lieutenant,” he said, “that
there is a pretty simple explanation of
that: Mr. Latismer could give you some
information along those lines, I fancy.
What seems so confusing is the fact that
we have been faced with two crimes in¬
stead of one. The confusion lies in the
fact that one occurred just a matter of
minutes ahead of the other. However
—well, I’ll save it for the D.A.”
“Arrrh!” Quill plainly disliked the
idea of more mystery, but let it go at
that. He started barking orders as he
got his overcoat on:
“Feeney, go bring in that soda-jerker.
Pick up the boss up there, too—Spinel
himself, if that’s his name. And you,
Freeward, you get the D.A. on the phone.
Doc, bring Muth down there with his
testimony. I’m gonna see this case fin¬
ished if it takes all nightl”
CHAPTER XI
C ORA SUE was crying. Even John
Freeward felt a hurting in him as
he sat there watching the disintegration
of a man. Shriveled and collarless, Ben
Rasp looked like a sickly ghost of the
waiter who had served hundreds of sand¬
wiches to Cora Sue. Not that the man
bore any visible sign of physical violence,
but he was deadened and dulled as
though some vital organism had gone
out of him.
The tears gathered unashamed in
Cora Sue’s eyes, and she held John’s hand
tightly, whispering:
“I—I can’t believe it. I simply can’t'
believe poor Ben could be a murderer.”
178
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR
John nodded. “I know. God, but I
wish he wouldn’t look like that!”
The prisoner’s high forehead, and over¬
large eyes in their deep sockets burning
under it, gave him the look of a Christian
martyr, somehow. He stood there with
his arms pathetically folded to conceal
the handcuffs, limp and weak. He had
stubbornly refused to speak, too, despite
the shouting and ranting of Detective
Quill, and the more gentle if more prob¬
ing persistence of Mr. Latismer.
‘‘Might as well make a clean breast of
it. Rasp,” the District Attorney was say¬
ing. “We have plenty of proof that you
oisoned the maestro and Ambin. We
ave at least one of those needles, and
your oboe with the tube in it, and we
know that your employer at the drug¬
store had that curine in a cabinet. Come
now, tell us why you did it. You aren’t
a criminal. You’re sane enough. You
must have had a reason.”
But the thin, pale face remained with¬
out expression.
P eter Wengalle was seen to speak
into Latismer’s ear. The District At¬
torney looked up at him doubtfully but
shrugged as much as to say, “Well, I
don’t believe it, but you can try.” Then
Wengalle spoke in bristling Italian.
Rasp was caught by surprise. His
eyes had a startled look in them. Sud¬
denly he collapsed, slumped in his chair
and buried his face in his handcuffed
arms. Wengalle went on, changing to
English now:
“So you see, there is no good in hiding
it now. I guessed it sometime ago. I
was a correspondent in Rome in 1919,
and I think I knew every musical figure
in Italy, Raspucci, by sight at least.”
‘‘Ah, ma, perdio, sono perduto-per-
dulo!” the man murmured. But he drew
himself stiffly up once more, and faced
the Englishman with:
“Raspucci? Que vuol’dire signor? E
morte, Raspucci, come sa tutto il mondo.
Dico la verita.”
“That’s useless, my friend,” said Wen¬
galle, keeping to English now. “And if
you persist in it, you can only expect
the police to investigate it completely.
They’ll find out—be sure of it. Right
now it is a waiter named Ben Rasp on
trial for murder. The memory of Bene¬
detto Raspucci is the recollection of a
great artist. Do you want that memory
to be stained with crime? This is your
last chance, my friend. Tell the truth,
and the name of Raspucci can be kept
from the press—can be kept clean and
bright.”
A strange look came into the man’s
eyes suddenly, and he nodded slowly and
began speaking like a man in a trance.
“Bene,” he said. “It is true, then. The
soul of Raspucci is already dead. Only
the body can die now, signor.”
T HERE was absolute silence in the
room as the man spoke on. He told a
story to pluck at the heartstrings of
everyone who heard it. Even the hard
face of Lieutenant Quill softened. Fal-
teringly, brokenly, in stilted English, he
told of his struggles as a young musician,
of a small orchestra composed of his per¬
sonal friends who had believed in him
as a composer, who played without hope
of reward, starving, grateful for crumbs.
He told of minor success, of passionate
labor to bring to life a symphonic com¬
position upon which he had labored for
years. He told how he had taken in a
starving violinist named Rosso, given
him a portion of his own frugal suste¬
nance, shared with him a garret, allowed
him to aid in the orchestration of his
great composition. He told how, one
day, he had been stricken with an illness
and confined to his room, and how, un¬
able to pay the small sum required for
rent, he was driven from his garret and
thrown upon the kindness of friends as
poor as he. His small orchestra, he said,
was conducted during his illness by this
Rosso, whose mannerisms and gallery¬
playing won him some considerable fol¬
lowing.
And then, he said, this Rosso deserted
the cause of pure art to accept a position
in another city, promising to send funds
to his deserted friends in Florence. And
when he, Raspucci, was able to resume
his work once more, he found that his
precious manuscript had disappeared.
He had tried to find Rosso, thinking that
perhaps his friend had put it in some
safe place when they had been evicted
from their little garret, but Rosso had
vanished.
A few months later all Italy was star¬
tled by the triumph of a new composer-
conductor whose composition, submitted
with thousands of others for a national
award, had won the prize and national
acclaim. That man’s name had been
Giuseppe Maldochini. And when Ras¬
pucci, with a few saved lire, paid admis¬
sion to hear a performance of the Na¬
tional Symphony Orchestra when it came
to Florence and played a premiere of
179
THE BLUE BOOK MAGAZINE
Maldochini’s “Retribution of Cain,”
Raspucci had recognized the conductor
as that same Rosso whom he had be¬
friended, and the composition as the
work of his own fevered, starving but
passionately creative brain.
“And what can I do, signore?” he de¬
manded. “To prove such a theft, it is
not possible. Perhaps with money, in
the courts, yes; but this Maldochini, was
he not then elected to the Academy?
And one does not, signore, cry ‘Thief!’
when what has been stolen is from the
soul.”
The rest was commonplace—a story of
emigration to America, of starvation, of
refusal to treat music as being on the
level with a trade, refusing to join a mu¬
sicians’ union, and because of this, being
forced to do what he could to earn a
living.
Working for two years at the drug¬
store, he had often given a hand to the
pharmacists and had been entrusted with
the keys of some of the cabinets contain¬
ing drugs. He had long ago noticed a
small vial which was marked in hand¬
written ink, “Mr. Spinel , private. Deadly
poison. Aug. 3, 1921.” When he had
seen the newspaper announcement of
Maldochini’s coming visit to America,
he had taken some of this dangerous
liquid, sensing that the bottle had been
forgotten long since. The idea of using
a blowpipe had not occurred to him un¬
til one day Maldochini had taken a sand¬
wich in the drugstore, and perhaps fear¬
ing trouble from the man whose very
life he had destroyed, had pretended
friendship, had given him a chance to
play in his orchestra.
TATISMER called on Mr. Spinel, an
I i aged gentleman who looked terrified
through his corpulence, and could scarce¬
ly speak above a whisper.
“How does it happen that you pos¬
sessed such a deadly drug in your place?”
he wanted to know. “I understand that
there are strict laws governing—”
“Ja, dot’s right; but I forget it al¬
ready, it is so long ago now,” he ad¬
mitted. He told of his earlier studies as
a chemist, and his aspiration to make
a fortune out of patent medicines. In
Europe, he stated, patent medicines for
the purpose of relaxing the nervous sys¬
tem had sometimes employed the deadly
curare, which at that time had not been
ruled illegal in America. Privately in his
own laboratory he had manufactured a
small quantity of the derivative, curine.
planning to utilize it microscopically in
some such way, but the pharmacopoeia
excluded the substance before he was
able to continue, and the bottle re¬
mained for years at the back of a forgot¬
ten shelf, while his drug business as¬
sumed more modern tendencies, institut¬
ing soda-fountains and sandwich-bars in¬
stead of pharmaceutical laboratories.
It was Quill, however, who produced
the one question which was needed to
make the entire structure clear:
“Now what I don’t see,” he said, “is
how that gadget of yours worked. One
of them needles will blow out of it, all
right, but it don’t have force enough to
break the skin. And the Doc says that
stuff won’t kill unless—”
B EN RASP was still holding his head
down and fumbling nervously with
his hands. He spoke in a mutter now,
using Italian. He seemed to be ignoring
the existence of all those people, his eyes
fixed upon his knuckles.
Peter Wengalle acted as extempore in¬
terpreter.
“He says that he had been shooting
those things into the maestro’s clothes
for several days,—every rehearsal, as a
matter of fact,—knowing that sooner or
later Maldochini would lean against
something and press the point of one of
them into his skin. Apparently he must
have done so on the platform that night.”
“Okay,” said Quill when he had di¬
gested that. “And now there’s one thing
we aint touched on that—oh, hell, I can’t
get it out of my head that this Mal¬
dochini had a bullet in his head. No¬
body can just laugh that off. How about
it, D.A.? Somebody must have shot that
bullet.”
Latismer seemed prepared for that.
“Since it’s obviously impossible to
murder an already dead body, I doubt if
any grand jury would bring an indict¬
ment on that count,” he said. “Tech¬
nically, Maldochini was dead before that
shot was fired.”
“Well, who fired it?”
“Two other parties planned the mae¬
stro’s murder. I can prove that, but I’ll
do it—privately. For the benefit of the
gentlemen of the press, however, let me
say that one of those parties was Yvonne
Blanchamps, the singer.”
“The hell you say! She was his—”
“His wife,” said Latismer calmly. A
stir followed. “She was the wife of
Giuseppe Rosso—alias Giuseppe Mal¬
dochini. We have a certificate to show
MURDER IN E-FLAT MAJOR'
that. Furthermore, by his will, she
would have benefited to the extent of
twenty-five thousand American dollars
by his death. He had that much tucked
away in a Boston bank, where no foreign
government could expropriate it.”
"Huh?”
“He was deprived of citizenship and
his property confiscated last summer. He
was guilty of an act which, in dictator
countries, is a political crime. And for
reasons which I can only explain private¬
ly, a certain group of persons whose name
I am not at liberty to mention—also for
excellent reasons—carried vengeance for
this political crime to America.”
“You mean the Italian Gov—”
“Not at all. Expressly not. A group
of private nature unsponsored by the
Government. What I cannot prove, but
what seems likely, is that Yvonne Blan-
champs helped them plan Maldochini’s
death—for her own purposes."
“Well, that will take some proving.”
“I admit that. Still, Miss Graybourne
has kindly come down here tonight to
repeat her testimony that she saw La
Blanchamps enter a certain box at Van-
derstitt Hall just prior to the shooting.
We can only conclude that it was her
knowledge of the musical score that
helped to time that shot to a moment
when it could not be heard above the or¬
chestra. However, since Miss Blan¬
champs cannot be brought to trial—”
“But Ambin killed her on account—”
“Not necessarily. It is quite as likely
that he had followed her for other rea¬
sons. After all, she was his wife—illegal¬
ly, as it proved, but I doubt if he knew
that. I prefer to believe that—those per¬
sons unmentioned—felt that Miss Blan¬
champs knew too much of their move¬
ments. I fancy Ambin only witnessed
the stabbing, or got there just to<j late.”
“Then who killed Ambin?”
“Since Ambin shared a small apart¬
ment with Rasp, and possibly knew con¬
siderable about his movements, and since
Rasp was one of the three players who
visited Ambin in his cell—well, perhaps
our prisoner can help you there.”
E YES turned upon the huddled figure
of Rasp, who now sat motionless in a
chair, his arms dangling limply; but the
man did not move nor speak. Quill
shouted at him. Wengalle spoke sharply
in Italian. Then someone cried:
“God a’mightyl He’s dead!”
Dr. Bankler scurried to the figure in
the chair, lifted the face, then turned to
the officials with a curious gesture.
“Exit,” he said, “the prisoner!”
He bent over the dead man, picked up
a limp hand and stared at it, then picked
up the other. Then he said:
"Quite simple, that. I see a bit of cot¬
ton tucked under one fingernail, and a
tiny cut on a knuckle of the other hand
—likely a half-healed wound. Draw blood
with that fingernail—and that cotton un¬
der it—” He shrugged eloquently. “I
fancy we have another interesting item
for Dr. Muth and his laboratory. How¬
ever, it is certain, at least, that the
prisoner will never be brought to trial.”
T HE folding of the ancient and honor¬
able journal, the Chronicle, just three
days after the closing of the Maldochini
case, is common history now. The busi¬
ness-journal version mentioned badly
balanced financial sheets and employed
topheavy phrases which, had the public
not had other things to think of, might
have been puzzling. But in the world of
newspaper men, who have a flair for such
things, the two facts were looked upon as
simple cause and effect. “Barneveld,”
they whispered, “must have bought him¬
self a gold brick. Bet you this feller
Peavey knows what it’s all about.”
For nearly a week after its solution the
Maldochini case still made copy, and
even when it vanished from Page One
and then drifted out of the public eye,
to be replaced by war news and fresher,
newer murders, there was a small but
significant item to be read in the “Town
Crier” column of one of the Chronicle’s
old rival papers. This columnist put it:
“It may be just a hunch, but your sim¬
ple reporter, getting a report that the
assistant D.A., Clarence Dillion, has re¬
signed his office due to a breakdown, to
be replaced by the late Judge Ellison
Freetvard’s only son John, whose brand-
new wife, the former Cora Sue Gray¬
bourne, was a witness in the Maldochini
fiasco, wonders whether all has been
sweetness and light in one of our most
important public offices, these last few
weeks. Young Freeward is a pleasant
fellow, and we both congratulate him
and wish him luck, mentioning that we
had nothing personal against retiring
Mr. Dillion, although our praise shall
be faint indeed.”
Another book-length novel, “Exile* of Time,” by Nel¬
son S. Bond, will appear in the next—the May—issue.
181
H IPPY was this night horse’s name.
He’d been named that before he
was broke, for on account of get¬
ting jammed against the heavy gate log
of a corral while going through too fast a
hip was caved in. It was some months
later when he was run in again, and even
though he looked some lop-sided with the
caved-in hip, it didn’t seem to hinder him
in his action. There wasn’t a limp nor
even a catch in his gait, but figuring that
he wouldn’t do for a long ride he was
broke for use as a night horse.
What we call a night horse is one we
ride on “night guard,” in holding a herd
of cattle which is to be moved on to other
ranges or shipped to market. With most
of the big outfits the night horse is used
on night guard only, for there’s a herd to
be held most every night, sometimes the
year around. The herd is worked over
(culled out) during the day as different
ranges are reached, and replaced by oth¬
ers from the day’s round-ups, so there’s
a herd to keep guard on, day and night.
It’s called a main herd or manada.
The riders take shifts in holding the
herd. During the day, three or four rid¬
ers take on an average of six-hour shifts
loose-herding the herd to grazing while
the other riders go on circle, rounding
up more stock in the surrounding coun¬
try. The day-herd shift comes on an
average of every two or three days for
each rider, depends on the amount of
riders the outfit has and the size of the
herd and kind of cattle that’s being held.
No cowboy likes day herding, for you’re
not supposed to go to sleep on the job
and there’s seldom enough to do to keep
you from doing just that.
But on night guard, when the herd is
close-herded, every rider takes his two-
hour shift regular and every night, and
it might sound sort of queer, but few
seem to mind that as much as day-herd,
nor the break of sleep to ride the two
MEAL EX-
For details of our Real Experience
182
JA (ig^ht Ji/o rse
By Will James
hours’ guard shift around and around the
herd. Maybe it’s on account of the many
thoughts and dreams that comes to the
mind at such times, by the quiet bedded
herd and under starlit skies.
That would be a good setting for these
modern cowboy songs, and there’s many
such nights. But there’s also as many
of the other kind, when the skies are
cloudy and all is dark as stacks of black
cats in dark caves, when hard-driven
sleet and snow keeps the herd drifting,
or with blinding lightning and roaring
thunder and hurricane-like winds, or with
cloudburst-like rains with hail pelting
the hides of the restless cattle, to some¬
times cause ’em to stampede.
Some night horses, if of quiet enough
nature when colts, are started on the
work of night guard right away after the
first few saddlings and kept for that
PEH1ENCES
story contest, see page 3.
work only. A horse that’s good for that
work is as important as a horse that’s^
good for cow work, such as cutting out,,
roping, etc., and horses that’s broke to
night guard that way are usually mighty
good at it, sometimes beyond human un¬
derstanding.
Hippy was such a horse, and like with
other such horses I’ve rode", he’d often;
make me wonder at his supernatural-like
instinct or sixth sense. Like for instance,
while holding half-wild herds during
pitch dark nights when I could hardly
see his ears and the herd would be quiet
and still, some of the cattle getting
mighty wise and tricky would watch a
rider go by and then sneak out of the
herd as quiet and careful as a cat could.
Once out of hearing distance from the
herd they would then go faster and fast¬
er until they safely made their get-away,
when they would slow down to a steady
drifting gait.
But not many would get away that
way unless there wasn’t enough riders
for the size of the herd. For a good night
183
horse sure wouldn’t let them if he was
within hearing distance of ’em as they
sneaked out. He’d take after ’em, and
sometimes long before the rider could
hear or see them during cloudy and real
dark nights.
As I’d be riding Hippy during such
nights, and relying on him so much I’d
once in a while half doze in the saddle,
and sometimes he’d near slip out from
under me as with a sudden jerk he’d
light into a tight run.
He’d be running from the herd, and
like he was sure enough out to head off
and turn some herd-quitters. I of course
would let him go, even though in the
darkness I couldn’t see a thing ahead.
But soon enough I’d be hearing the click¬
ing of the critters’ hoofs, for by then,
knowing they’d been discovered, they’d
hit out at top speed and try to lose us in
the dark.
But there’d be no losing Hippy, and
soon enough he’d be alongside of the
leader; then the bunch would be turned
back to the herd. Seldom more than a
few cattle at a time would try to sneak
out that quiet way. These would be
mostly old renegades, wise to all tricks,
and had got away many times before,
when all would be quiet and the whole
herd still.
There was times when it was pitch
dark that way and Hippy would of a
.184
sudden bust out after some unseen herd-
quitters that, riding alongside of ’em
and getting to what I thought would be
the leader I’d be for turning ’em back,
but there’d be some such times when
Hippy wouldn’t turn, for there’d be an¬
other runaway bunch further on, which
I couldn’t see but which somehow he’d
detected or got the wind of. I’d let him
go, and sure enough, in a short time I’d
hear the clatter of more running hoofs
ahead.
Having good confidence in Hippy that
way I’d leave it to him when come dark
and stormy nights and I couldn’t see very
far. Where the renegades would run to
when getting away from the herd would
be towards the roughest of the surround¬
ing country. Some of it would be rough
enough for mountain goats, but Hippy
fell only a couple of times with me dur¬
ing the three months I rode him on night
guard for that outfit.
But an average bucking horse was eas¬
ier to ride than Hippy when he’d hit out
full speed and across rough country dur¬
ing them nights, for, in the pitch dark¬
ness, I couldn’t tell for no distance ahead
whether there’d be a sudden drop of some
feet or a rise the same, or a jump or turn.
I’d have to be doing some tall riding to
stay in the saddle, for Hippy would take
most any kind of country at the same
speed and as though it was all level when
he thought he was after stock that was
trying to get away.
Sometimes I think his imagination got
the best of him too, and he’d be mighty
restless. But then, so would the herd be
restless and, as I got to noticing, it would
be mostly during such times when there’d
be a stampede, maybe only a short scare,
then again, there was some good ones too.
Some of the stampedes sometimes broke
loose after me and Hippy had been re¬
lieved of our shift, but I remembered
that by Hippy’s restlessness during our
guard. He’d felt it coming.
S O that was the queer twist I found in
Hippy, or maybe it was just his being
over-alert. But sometimes, while we’d
quietly and steady make our rounds of
the herd at a walk he’d come to a stop,
look and listen from some direction, sniff
the air and then he’d start out, from a
trot into a high lope. I couldn’t see or
hear anything, but knowing that with his
developed senses and instinct I was no
match for him at night, I’d let him go.
A few times it might of been only the
crack of a twig or dry brush at a dis¬
tance, and even though he’d most always
wind up by running onto some herd-
quitters there was times he’d line out
that way when there wasn’t anything,
without scent nor sound to attract him.
It would be just plain imagination or may¬
be he just wanted to have a run.
He did have some good chances to run
during the few months I rode him, and
when he didn’t need to use his imagina¬
tion for a reason. That was during some
fair to middling to good long-winded
stampedes. Hippy more than enjoyed
’em, so much, and would get so excited
that he’d sometimes lose his head and
stampede too, go to running wild and
paying no attention as to where he was
going or running into. There’d be no
turning or stopping him at such times.
T HE best and scariest run he put on
that way for me was during one of
them long-winded stampedes. It was a
dark and spooky night. The herd at that
time was made up of over a thousand head
of big beef steers, from four-year-olds on
up to near the limit of any steer’s age,
for two-thirds of the herd was “Mexico
buckskins” (Longhorns) and there was
no telling the age of some of them, but
one good long summer in the tall grass
of the northern range and they got as fat
as their frame could allow, also as wild.
We was trailing this mixed herd of na¬
tive and Mexico beeves to the shipping
point, grazing ’em along the way and tak¬
ing ’em easy so they wouldn’t lose any
more weight than possible. On that ac¬
count we all was mighty careful so they
wouldn’t even get a start to stampeding,
for the hard running and then the gath¬
ering of ’em as they’d scatter afterwards
would cause the loss of quite a few
pounds per steer, and if the stampede
was a long and fast one that would
amount to a considerable loss when it
come to over a thousand big steers.
All of us was doing our very best to see
that no such would happen along the
trail, with this herd, and all went well
until we got the herd about to go; when,
as we bedded the herd for that night, we
noticed faint streaks of lightning away
to the west and we picked out as big and
level opening as we could find to hold the
herd in. It wasn’t a very big opening,
for that country was pretty rough, but
it would do if the cattle didn’t get too
restless or start to running.
The cook had set camp in a well-shel¬
tered spot, close to a steep hill and well
above the creek bank, but not under or
185
very near any trees, for, as he remarked,
when we gathered for supper that eve¬
ning, he didn’t like these so-late-in-the-
year thunderstorms.
“They’re usually freakish,” he said,
“the wind is apt to twist and turn you
inside out, and if the lightning don’t get
you a cloudburst most likely will.”
It turned out that the cook was about
halfways right in his prophecy. I was
to be on “graveyard” shift that night.
That guard is for the hours from mid¬
night to two. But it was long before
time for my shift when in the middle of
what seemed to be a sure enough cloud¬
burst, I and all the other riders off guard
had to get out from under our tarps,
jump on our horses and ride hard for the
herd, wherever we thought it might be,
for it had stampeded.
Every man was in the saddle, all but
the cook and the day-wrangler, and they
would of been riding too, only they of
course never keep up night horses.
About eight of us rode on and circled
quite a ways before we located the herd
and some of the riders that was with it,
and then it was only by the rumbling
sound of the running hoofs splashing on
muddy sod and the cracking of dry limbs
as it went through scrub timber, that we
did locate it. That was between thunder
claps. The flashes of lightning didn’t
help much, for they being so close near
blinded us and it was only all the darker
afterwards. Not mentioning the heavy
sheets of rain that felt like to pound us
into the earth.
The herd had of course left the open¬
ing soon as they first stampeded. When
they leave that way they just seem to
pick up and are gone, the whole herd as
if one, and what riders are on shift have
no chance to turn or hold ’em, for it usu¬
ally happens too sudden.
By the time we got to the herd it was
scattered pretty bad and a rider couldn’t
tell whether he was in the middle of it
or on one side with only part of it, or
even in the lead. For there was cattle
everywhere, running all directions, and
in that rough, scrub-timber country there
was no use trying to get the herd together
again, get ’em to milling and to stop.
Not while that freak storm was raging.
W E done our best to find and keep on
the outside of the scattering herd so
they wouldn’t scatter any more than was
possible, but in that darkness, heavy
rain and wind and blinding lightning we
sometimes hardly knew where we wa 3
at. Our horses would slide down off slip¬
pery gumbo pinnacles and sidehills and
right down amongst where some running
cattle had piled up at the bottom. There
was also the danger of more to come and
sliding down, and a cowboy being
jammed in at the bottom of a ravine or
gully amongst hefty longhorns, was like¬
ly to be there permanent.
But the big husky steers wouldn’t be
in no such a jam for long at a time, and
slipping and sliding and running into
one another or trees and boulders, they
kept on going fast as they could, to the
end—which would be when they got over
their fright or became exhausted and
couldn’t run no more.
It was while the stampede was at its
best, fireworks going on all around, thun¬
der roaring on and rain a pelting to the
weight of an ounce a drop, wind a tear¬
ing and all combined that me and Hippy
slid onto a good-sized bunch which I
figured had split from the main part of
the herd, and then was sure hitting out
of the country.
All of us riders was pretty well scat¬
tered by then, as scattered as the cattle
was, and hardly any of us knew where
the other was. That sure couldn’t be
helped in that weather and country at
that time. But scattered as we was we
still worked together and to the same
aim, which was, without orders or in¬
structions, to always try to hold the herd
together. If that was impossible, such
as during that night, to ride for the lead
bunches and try to turn ’em towards
where the main part of the herd might be
thought to be or towards the bed-ground,
where the herd had started from and
was to be held for the night.
Figuring that the herd was so badly
scattered and there was no main part to
it I took to the lead of the big bunch I’d
run onto. Hippy was all for that and
slipped and slid ’em to turn after turn,
running into bunch after bunch of more
cattle, and cowboys all riding their best
to turn each their bunches into a main
one so’s they’d be easier to hold. Me
and Hippy was sure doing our share and
sort of halfways enjoying the goings-on
when another bunch, like dropping from
the heavy skies, slid right into the mid¬
dle of the bunch we was already having
a tough time trying to handle.
Well, there was nothing to do but get
to the lead of that bunch, and if there
was any weakness in that knocked-in
hip of Hippy’s it sure didn’t show on him
as he raced on and caught up with the
lead.
By a dimmer flash of lightning I seen
the lead as we caught up to it and some¬
how managed to turn the bunch back.
I was about to hold Hippy down for a
breathing spell then, but that bunch was
no more than turned when he went right
on, like he’d sure heard of another bunch
getting away. I let him go.
I T being so dark and stormy, having
made so many turns and twists, down
pinnacles and acrost flooded ravines and
washes I couldn’t judge for very far just
where I might be riding, but I judged
that I was somewhere between where
we’d bedded the herd that evening and
where camp was.
I didn’t have much time to think of
where I was right then, for Hippy had
stampeded, or was running away with
his imagination that there was more cat¬
tle ahead, and I was about to try to stop
and turn him back when I of a sudden
felt like he was getting out from under
me and slipping down into space. I just
only tried to steady him from falling
then and, as good luck would have it, we
hit the bottom right side up, still a go¬
ing full speed ahead. Then a tall white
blur in the thick of the dark of a sudden
stuck up in front of us, and at the speed
we was going there was no chance to stop
or go around it, and so right smack into
that white blur we dived.
If it had been a stone wall it would of
been the same. But there was a tearing
sound of canvas, the breaking of a ridge
pole, and at that instant I knew it was
the cook tent. A flash of lightning at
that same time made me see for double
sure that it was.
It was again a miracle that Hippy and
me didn’t pile up when we hit that tent,
but Hippy had tried to clear it and he hit
it above center, and at the speed we was
going the tent went down from under us,
only bringing Hippy to his knees beyond
it and to slide on them and his nose for
a ways.
But he soon got his footing again and
away he went some more, and I didn’t
try to stop him, not right then, for the
cook who slept inside of that tent was
mighty cranky at his best, just as handy
with his shooting-iron, and I sure didn’t
want to linger and let it be known wheth¬
er it was me on Hippy, some other rider,
or a hurricane that leveled the tent that
night.
Nobody knows to this day, but if any
of the riders who was with the outfit at
the time happens to read this they will
remember, especially the cook will.
187
1 WAS an oiler on the S.S. Collingsworth
on September 17th, and spent two and
a half hours out in a lifeboat helping
pick up survivors from H.M.S. Courage¬
ous, the English airplane-carrier.
It happened in the evening; I was off
watch at the time. I had the eight-to-
twelve watch. The Courageous had been
going up and down past us for several
days, sometimes almost out of sight, and
sometimes within two or three miles of
us. She had passed us so many times
that we had begun to feel a proprietary
interest in her. And her speed was so
much greater than ours that she would
go some distance ahead of us, with her
escort of four destroyers, then turn and
come back, going far astern of us.
I was standing on deck watching planes
land on her deck, when I wanted a ciga¬
rette, and went to my forecastle to get
them. While I was there, the alarm-
bells began to ring.
I knew it was not just a drill at that
time on a Sunday evening, so I grabbed
several packs of cigarettes, matches, my
papers, and a life-preserver, and went on
deck. Someone amidship yelled, “Boat
stations I ” so I went up on the boat-deck.
Even if everyone hadn’t been talking
about it, I would have known why after
one look at the Courageous. In the few
minutes I’d been off deck, she had been
hit—and hit hard. Much of this I found
out later, but she had been hit twice—
once forward and once aft. The forward
torpedo had exploded a magazine on the
Courageous, tearing an enormous hole in
her. She was nearly twenty-three thou¬
sand tons, and I don’t think any ship any¬
where near her size has ever gone down
so fast—she was hit at 6:18 and was com¬
pletely under at 6:25—seven minutes.
While approaching the spot where she
sank, we were swinging out the No. 1
and No. 2 lifeboats, and rigging pilot lad¬
ders from the forward well-deck.
When the
By
John E. Burns
The Chief Mate called for volunteers,
and five of us piled in the No. 1 boat:
a wiper, an A. B., an Ordinary, a work¬
away (who had been an A. B. on the
American Banker and missed it in Lon¬
don) and myself—an oiler—at the oars
and the mate at the tiller.
Our captain had not dared go too close
in to the spot where the Courageous sank,
and the two destroyers were racing round
and round dropping depth-charges, the
shock of some of which we could feel on
the Collingsworth. About four o’clock
that afternoon a British merchantman
had been sunk some forty miles from
us, and two of the escort of four destroy¬
ers had been detached and sent to try to
get that “sub,” leaving only two to guard
the Courageous.
It was dark before we picked up the
first man. He was swimming alone; and
a little distance away we could see two
groups of men with fifteen or more in
each group hanging on to some wreck¬
age. Just then our No. 2 boat came up,
and we called to them to keep to their
port, which carried them directly to the
two large groups.
We rowed farther into the area, pick¬
ing up a man here and there. Several
times we started for men, only to have
them go under before we could reach
them. Most of the time there were only
three of us at the oars, and two men in
the bow to pull in the castaways. Two
men were needed for that job, as the
swimmers were all exhausted when we
reached them. The sea water was 58
degrees, and most of them had shed their
clothes to rid themselves of extra weight.
O NE sad happening was when we
headed for a group of three men, and
one of them went down before we reached
them. We got to the other two, and the
two men in the bow grabbed them. They
were just about all in. They put one
(Courageous $ank
An American sailor who
helped man one of the Col¬
lingsworth’s lifeboats tells
of his share in a historic
tragedy.
fellow’s hands on the gunwale on the port
side, while they hauled the other fellow
in on the starboard side. When they
turned to get the man on the port side,
he had let loose and gone under without
a sound. We fished for him for a minute
with boathooks, but didn’t find him. We
had to hold the one man we saved to keep
him from jumping back. He told us the
other fellow was his buddy and couldn’t
swim, and he had been holding him up
all that time.
The fellow must have been a very good
swimmer, for he was one of the few we
picked up fully clothed,—he even had on
a suede jacket,—and had been in the
water over two hours when picked up.
Another fellow we picked up had noth¬
ing on except underwear shorts, and they
were torn. The first thing he said was:
“Blyme, I hope there’s no lydies on your
boat. I can’t come aboard this way, you
know.”
One incident that scared us all hap¬
pened when we had about ten or twelve
men in the boat. As we pulled them in
over the bow, they crawled or we lifted
them into the after part of the boat, so
we’d have room to work the oars. Then
too, by huddling together in the bottom,
they managed to keep a little warmer.
Suddenly one of them called out for the
flashlight, and said the plug was out of
the boat. We could hear water gurgling,
and I had visions of all of us being in the
drink. We all laughed in relief when we
found out what it was: one of them had
knocked the bung out of the fresh-water
keg.
In the meantime the destroyers, sure
that they had got the sub, had come in
closer and stopped. They didn’t put over
any boats until well over two hours after
the sinking. Not that they didn’t want
to, but Naval regulations forbid rescue
work until the safety of the remaining
ships is assured. While remaining poised
for action, they saved many men who
swam over to them and were pulled
aboard by lines.
A Holland-American liner had also
come up and launched four boats. There
was a small English freighter too; and
although I have not had any confirma¬
tion of this, I think she was one of the
so-called Q-boats.
W E picked up fourteen men in our
life-boat; only one of them had a
life-preserver on. He was an officer, but
whether of the ship or an aviator, I don’t
know. He was the hardest of them all to
save. When we came near him, he
seemed unconscious. We tried to pull
him alongside the boat with an oar, and
he grabbed it tighter than a drowning
man is supposed to clutch a straw. The
wiper and I pulled him in over the boat
after we got him loose from the oar.
After we picked up the last fellow, we
rowed around for some time but didn’t
see any more, and as we heard no more
calls, we started back to the Collings¬
worth. On the way we were hailed by
one of the destroyers, and asked to give
them the survivors we had. It was quite
a job. The sea wasn’t really rough, but
the swells were heavy, and a destroyer
will roll in a millpond. One minute we’d
be down looking at her keel, and the next
we’d be looking down at her deck, and
four of the men we had had to be hoisted
aboard in slings. One man’s mind was
gone, either from shock or exposure. He
was conscious but helpless. Two others
had bad legs, and another seemed to be
semi-paralyzed from a blow on the back.
When we got back to the Collingsworth
we found our No. 2 boat had got back
with thirty-eight men. Some of them
were badly injured, and others had had
miraculous escapes. Among them was
one man who had been several decks be¬
neath the water-level and had no idea
WHEN THE COURAGEOUS SANK
how he had got off. He must have been
blown out of the ship’s side, though he
didn’t have a scratch on him. The engi¬
neer commander was another. He had
just showered, and was dressing for din¬
ner when he was blown off the ship. He
was dressed in two garters and one sock.
When I got back aboard at nearly nine-
thirty I was of course late going on watch.
I filled up on coffee, had a quick shower,
and took over from the four-to-eight oil¬
er. As we were just drifting, I spent
some time on deck talking to some of the
Courageous men. They told us the same
story some of the men we picked up had
while we were in the boat. They said
planes from the Courageous had sunk
three subs that day. They all said that
the British Navy knew how many subs
were in the Atlantic and North Sea at the
time war was declared, and that they had
sunk nearly four-fifths of them.
I think they knew what they were talk¬
ing about, because the reports of ship
sinkings bear out their story. The Ger¬
mans claim now the sub got away, but
for several reasons I feel sure it didn’t.
One is that the commander of the second
destroyer told us, while he was taking the
survivors off the Collingsworth, that they
had got it. Then too, it was eighteen
hours or so after the sinking before the
British radio announced it, and twelve
hours after that before the German radio
announced it. If that sub had got away,
they would have wirelessed the news to
Germany, for that was the first British
Navy ship sunk in the war, and an air¬
plane-carrier at that. The Germans would
have been only too happy to announce
it before the British did.
S INCE I wrote this story, T met the
captain of the Collingsworth. When
we got back, he was transferred to anoth¬
er ship and went right back across.
He told me several things that I hadn’t
known before. One was the exact loca¬
tion. But the Admiralty had asked him
not to reveal it; so while I don’t think it
makes any difference now, I won’t give
the latitude and longitude, but it was
about two hundred and fifty miles west
of Land’s End. Also he felt certain, as I
did, that the small British freighter was
a Q-boat, used to trap subs. And he told
me that the Holland-American liner
which came on the scene later had only
picked up one man with their four boats,
and that man later died; while we got
fifty-two men in two boats, all of whom
survived.
T HIS is a true story; it happened to
me in 1936, just as I have recorded
it, when I was sent out on a special
mission into Arnhem Land in the North¬
ern Territory of Australia, to carry out
an investigation into the causes of the
tribal fighting which had occurred there
intermittently for some years, and to es¬
tablish friendly relations among the war¬
ring factions.
From the natives’ point of view it is
easily explained, and in fact quite natural
and satisfactory. But it leaves the white
man without any adequate reply. _ Of
course, you may call it just coinci¬
dence. . . .
“It’s all a lot of rot,” the missionary
was saying in the superior tone that he
assumed when speaking of native cus¬
tom. “These tabus don’t mean anything,
and the sooner we can get rid of these
silly old-fashioned ideas, the quicker we
can civilize them.”
Our arguments on native customs gen¬
erally ended that way. We were speak¬
ing of “tabus” at the time. He was anx¬
ious to make a clean sweep of the lot; I,
on my side, was insisting on their func¬
tional use in the native society. For, to
put it crudely, “tabu” is, to most primi¬
tive peoples, practically synonymous
with the police force in a civilized com¬
munity. It furnishes the means by which
law and order can be enforced.
“Anyway,” the missionary continued,
anxious to push home the point, “these
wretched superstitions are meaningless.
Things like this never happen in real life,
and the people don’t believe in them;
they are just victims of their medicine¬
men.”
There was a time when I might have
agreed with him—at least in part; but
that was before I had lived with the na¬
tives as one of themselves, learned to
190
“cMi
9 9
irrtn
A weird happening in native Australia.
By Donald F. Thomson
speak their language, and incidentally,
seen things happen that cannot be ex¬
plained under the white man’s philosophy
—things that take some laughing off.
It was part of my job, at the time, to
keep the peace in a tract of uncontrolled
country some twenty thousand square
miles in extent, and to make a study of
native lore and custom. I was working
just then on genealogies—collecting pedi¬
grees for a study of kinship; and that
afternoon we were going against time, to
finish off the investigation of a relation¬
ship system, before leaving on an inland
patrol.
No Arnhem Land native may ever
speak the name of his sister; nor may he
hear it spoken in front of him. Of that
I had long been aware. This is mirriri
—an offence so grave that it is punished
by supernatural visitation. As a rule the
difficulty is averted, in collecting pedi¬
grees, quite simply. Since everyone is
aware of the tabu, whenever the name of
a sister or other tabu relation crops up,
the informant will call a bystander who
is not prohibited from pronouncing the
name, to speak it for him, and danger is
averted. But on this occasion there was
nobody about who stood in an appropri¬
ate relationship; none who could be sum¬
moned to speak the forbidden name.
Raiwalla, my own personal boy—and
incidentally, my tribal “younger brother”
and instructor in matters of etiquette—
looked around uneasily. “By and by
snake bite you and me,” he declared.
Then suddenly he seemed to change his
mind. Glancing round again to make
sure that nobody was about, he spoke
the name in a low whisper. I thought no
more of the incident, and that same after¬
noon we set out on a patrol, the first stage
of a journey of three hundred miles on
foot, with native carriers.
It was heavy going, and for hours we
climbed a low range of rugged hills, de¬
scending on the other side. It was just
dusk as we camped, close by a creek.
Tired after the hard traveling, I unrolled
my swag and lay at full length on the
canvas, my bare legs stretched out in
front of me. All around were the little
fires of the carriers, busy cooking their
evening meals.
All at once I became aware of a pecul¬
iar sensation in my left leg—as if some¬
thing deadly and unnaturally cold had
touched me. I propped myself on my
elbow and looked down to investigate.
In the half light—it was nearly dark by
this time—I could just make out the body
of a snake, elongated as it stretched to
cross my leg. I could see dimly the
broad flat head, and the body, marked
with transverse bands. I thought at once
of the only nocturnal snake in this region
which had such distinctive markings—
the brown tree snake (Boiga fusca).
I remembered that it was only slightly
venomous—one of the “back-fanged”
snakes, a group of snakes which have the
poison-fangs far back in the mouth and
are therefore at a disadvantage in bit¬
ing. In the previous year I had secured
a single specimen of this beautiful rep¬
tile on the Roper River to the south, and
I was very anxious to secure another. All
these things I thought, as I identified the
snake. I realized that the least move¬
ment on my part would alarm it, and I
kept perfectly still, for I did not wish to
lose the specimen.
Slowly, without haste or alarm, the
snake crossed the intervening space be¬
tween my legs, nosed against my right
leg, and then began slowly to cross it.
Even as I watched its leisurely progress
and felt again the chill of its scaly body,
I repressed a desire to move my leg and
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kick the reptile off. But knowing that
this would mean the loss of the coveted
specimen, I fought it down.
When at length it had crossed the sec¬
ond leg, I called to one of the natives to
bring a fish-spear, so that I could pin
down the snake without injuring it. This
was accomplished without difficulty, and
it was secured. Then the boys brought
torches and flares of bark. As the light
fell on the reptile, I saw the broad, flat¬
tened, evil-looking viperine head, and the
short, thick body, not of a brown tree
snake, but of a death adder! The. death
adder (Acanthophis antarctica), is one
of the deadliest, and certainly the quick¬
est in action, of all Australian snakes.
And though I was especially interested in
snakes, and collected more than three
hundred in this area in two years, this
was the only specimen of the death ad¬
der that 1 encountered in all that time.
Just then Raiwalla came up. He looked
at the snake, and spat with an emphasis
that spoke volumes.
“I been talk first time,” he remarked.
“By and by snake come.” I don’t know
if there is a word for coincidence in Rai-
walla’s language, and I have never sum¬
moned the courage to ask.
I looked again at the reptile and real¬
ized that probably nothing but my mis¬
take in identification—which led me to
keep perfectly still—had saved my life.
The mistake w r as understandable, for both
snakes have broad heads, and although
the death adder is normally short and
thick, with transverse color-bands not
well defined in repose, when it stretches
out in movement, the color-bands can be
clearly seen.
To the natives, of course, there was
nothing at all remarkable about the in¬
cident—unless it was the fact that the
snake did not bite. They know that the
punishment for “mirriri” is death.
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192
"THE HEAV/UNE P/MPOEP
ME TO MU?P ETE/?H/Ty/"
"ANOTHER FISHER¬
MAN and myself had
just finished setting a
heavy trot-line in
Lake Erie,” writes
Mr. Latimer, "when
a sudden treacherous
squall lashed out of
nowhere and churn¬
ed the water into
towering waves.
"A WAVE SMACKED
us broadside, and over
we went! Then I felt a
heavy drag on my leg.
I was caught in the
trot-line and was bei ng
pulled to my doom. In
the darkness, my com¬
panion couldn’t un¬
tangle me!
"BUT ONE OF OUR PARTY ON shore brought his flashlight into action. Its
powerful beam cut the distance and darkness—and in a minute I was free. I
shudder to think of what might have happened except for those dependable
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